Why I Wrote Small Town Gayby: Heal. Swipe. Live.
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I didn’t write this book because I wanted to.
I wrote it because there wasn’t a page left in me that wasn’t already about him. About us.
I needed more room. More room than a single chapter could carry without cracking under the weight of it. I needed to tell the kind of love story that doesn’t come in with a bow, but limps in barefoot, late to the party, holding a bag of half-melted Reese’s and asking, “Is this seat taken?”
Heal. Swipe. Live. isn’t about romance. It’s about ruin. And what you do when love shows up anyway.
“He didn’t flinch at my prescriptions, my scars, or the way I stopped mid-sentence to remember what I was trying to survive.”
Matthew—August, in the book—wasn’t the guy I pictured. He was better. He was complicated and gentle and dirty-minded and emotionally literate in a way that felt like sorcery. He showed up when I was still swollen from chemo, when I was holding grief like it was something sacred I couldn’t put down yet. And he looked me in the eye like I wasn’t broken, just mid-assembly.
There’s no cute meet in this story. No “and then we locked eyes across the café.” It was dating apps and road trips and a parking lot outside Six Flags where he kissed me for the first time with powdered sugar on his lips. I’d never hated being alive more than I had the year before. And then suddenly, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to ride roller coasters and eat funnel cake and laugh with a boy who looked at me like maybe my survival had been worth it.
“He held my hand like it wasn’t a question, like I’d always belonged right there beside him.”
This book is what happened after that kiss. After the road trips. After the trauma that came before him, and the healing that happened because of him. It’s not clean. It’s not linear. It’s cancer and car crashes and mold and laughter and gumbo and sex and being ghosted and not giving up anyway.
It’s about Daisy too—my girl, my Mama, my spine when mine gave out. Her love is stitched into every page, her little snores echoing in the spaces where I didn’t know what to say. If you’ve ever been saved by a dog, you’ll see her. She’s there in every quiet moment that kept me here.
“He didn’t fix me. He made space for me to still be sacred in the mess.”
What I’m trying to say is this:
You don’t have to be ready.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to be willing to stay.
Heal. Swipe. Live. was written in the messy middle. It’s not the fairytale ending. It’s the moment you stop running and look around and realize…you’re not alone anymore. And maybe, for once, you never were.
If you’ve ever wondered whether your story’s already over—it’s not.
If you’ve ever felt like too much or too late or too broken—this is your sign.
If you’ve ever been loved exactly where you are—this is your anthem.
You can read the book here. Or explore my other work if you want to wander through the rest of the mess with me. But this one? This is the one I wrote in case I never got another chance to say thank you. To the man. To the dog. To the version of me that didn’t let go.
“He stayed. And so did I. And for the first time in my life, that felt like enough.”