October 11, 2025
Welcome to my blog!
Let’s just get this out of the way: I’m here to show up as myself—messy, real, sweary and unfiltered. My style and vibe don’t land with everyone. And I’m cool with that.
Like most women, I juggle a ridiculous number of roles. I’m a nurse, a fire wife, a mom (including the rollercoaster ride of being both a disability and autism mom), daughter, sister, athlete, and disability advocate. My life took a wild detour in 2010 when Caitlyn, our daughter, arrived with congenital, stage four Neuroblastoma cancer. Yeah, I hadn’t heard of it either. Her birth launched us into an unknown wilderness we never asked for—a place filled with uncertainty, fear, and more loneliness than I thought possible.
Fourteen surgeries later, Caitlyn is fifteen years old and now a high school freshman. Somehow, despite all the madness, we’ve found our groove as Team Drennan—me, my husband Jim, our son Cameron, and Caitlyn herself. We’re a crew forged in fire and chaos, and that’s what makes us strong.
I toyed with the idea of writing a memoir back in 2017. Natasha, a fellow nurse and friend, encouraged me to just go for it. I had zero clue what I was doing, but I was fortunate enough to have smart people around me who doled out solid advice—like, “find a writing coach.” Fast forward to 2021, when The Narrative Project and its founder, Cami Ostman, came into my life. With Jim’s full support, I dove in and it’s been one of the best things I’ve ever done. I needed all the help and support I could get—after all, I was a nurse, not a writer!
Fate threw me another win: I was paired with Sabine Sloley as my coach. Sabine just got me from day one and encouraged my “unique” voice—raw, sometimes filthy, oftentimes inappropriate. Unfiltered. Sweary. She understood the assignment and knew when to let me run wild and when to reign me in, always making sure my authentic voice stayed front and center.
Now, after four years of support from The Narrative Project I’ve got a full draft of my story and am deep in edits with Sabine. Cami is helping me tackle a book proposal, and here I am—writing my first blog post because apparently, that’s a thing authors do now. An author website, a blog… the work never ends!
Here’s the truth: I came to this whole blog thing kicking, screaming, sulking, and of course, lot of cursing. Sabine’s been dropping hints for years that I need start one. Easy to ignore when I was balls deep in my manuscript, but now? No more excuses. Sure, I fought hard against it—because it’s out of my comfort zone, because it’s hard, because it’s SO MUCH DAMN WORK. But Sabine reminded me that if I could step on to the mat at fifty-two years old and square up to an opponent half my age for my first kickboxing match, or sign up for Brazilian Jiu Jitsu match at fifty-four, then please, I can write a blog. Why does she always have to be right?
So, here I am. Here we are. Once I get past my pouty little tantrum, I drop in and find my stride. And today, I’m not even sulking or throwing a fit! Because life is messy, unpredictable, and always shifting, and all I can do is try to keep up.
Writing has become a lifeline. No bullshit, it’s the therapy I never knew I needed—my own survival hack for navigating the white-knuckle chaos and continuous shit balls life hurls at me. Some days, words pour out of me in a messy, glorious rush. Other days I can't write my way out of a paper bag. And you know what else keeps me from losing my mind? Beating the hell out of a heavy bag, grappling and sweating on the Jiu Jitsu mat with my body getting smashed and my ego humbled. And of course, my trusty old, lifelong friends, healthy doses of dark humor and a string of curse words These are the anchors I cling to, the only coping mechanisms I’ve found that haven’t screwed me over. They hold. They work for me.
And they’re sustainable.
In those early days—the brutal, ten-year stretch after Caitlyn was born—I was a total shitshow, drowning in denial, rage, and over-exercising myself into total emptiness. My so-called “tools” just fueled the fire. Nothing soothed my soul; all they ever left me was empty, bitter, and dead tired. I was clawing for some sort of control I’d never have. But I was a stubborn, triple-down kind of girl, wearing that shit like some sort of shiny armor. I gripped so tight to my anger and pain that I eventually I burned myself to ash.
Then, one day, it all came crashing down in spectacular, front-row-seat-for-everyone fashion. Utter, public meltdown. My rock bottom. The moment I stopped fighting gravity and let myself fall.
No more pretending.
I surrendered.
Letting go wasn’t easy. Asking for help? Seemingly impossible. But when I finally let my guard down, when I stopped pretending I had it all together, I discovered that real strength comes from showing up in your messiness. Vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s power. Community is everything. Connection saved me. After years pretending my tears didn’t exist, I learned that letting them flow wasn’t defeat. It’s healing. That’s why I’m writing my memoir, Crying Is Not an Option—except, maybe, it actually is.
When I write, it’s like letting loose with my closest friends—coffee or wine in hand, no masks, no judgment. No filter. We lay it all out there—the chaos, the joy, the struggle, the pain, the wins, the weirdness and grossness—knowing this is a safe space to be real. So that’s what you’ll get here: my raw, authentic voice. No pretending. Just me, showing up exactly as I am.