I didn’t realize there was a common thread running through all my characters until I stepped back and looked at them as a group. They didn’t appear to have much in common. Some are quiet, some are explosive. Some are curious, others are guarded. But when I truly studied them, I saw it:
They act first—and only later in the story do they begin to understand why.
They don’t start with insight. They don’t arrive with a tidy emotional vocabulary. They move and react. They navigate the world the best way they know how, and the feelings catch up later.
Maybe that’s because I’ve often done the same, and it is how we experience emotions in the real world.
Bluff, the Bigfoot Who Carries What-Ifs
In my children’s story Bluff, the main character is a hidden Bigfoot carrying a too-heavy backpack filled with invisible “what-ifs.” What if they laugh? What if I trip? What if they see the real me? Bluff isolates himself in the woods, not because he understands his anxiety, but because hiding feels like the only safe move. It’s not until he befriends a few creatures who don’t ask him to explain himself that the weight begins to lift.
Bluff didn’t start with emotional bravery. He began with an emotional reflex. And that felt truer than anything else I could’ve written.
Hadley, in the Wings
In Hadley in the Wings, Hadley is the type of girl who knows the answers in class but doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t fear being wrong, she simply doesn’t feel the need to be seen. She’s learned that being good means being quiet, and she’s mastered invisibility.
But over time, and with the help of her wildly expressive little brother, Hadley steps into the light, not because someone tells her she should, but because she wants to dance. She moves before she fully understands what it means to be watched.
Nathaniel, the Boy with the Yellow Timer
The Boy with the Yellow Timer is a quiet, observant story about a child who experiences the world a little differently.
For Nathaniel, everyday places can feel loud, fast, and overwhelming. Haircuts buzz too loudly. The dentist’s chair and his are too close. Grocery stores rush with sound and long, stretching aisles. But there is one steady thing that helps him find his footing, a small yellow timer marking time in a way his body understands.
With his mother’s gentle presence nearby, Nathaniel begins to notice something unexpected. The timer doesn’t just help him get through hard moments. It teaches him how to listen to himself. Slowly, he learns how to carry that steadiness inside—using focus, repetition, and his love of words to face a challenge no one saw coming.
Tender and quietly triumphant, The Boy with the Yellow Timer is a story about self-regulation, growth, and recognizing strengths that don’t always announce themselves. It celebrates the children who observe before they speak, feel deeply, and discover their own way forward—one moment at a time.
Ava, and the Unnamed Feeling
In Where We Came From, my adult fiction novel, Ava is a woman who has done everything right. She married well, maintained composure, and built a nice life. But something gnaws at her. Her sleep is restless. Her stomach unsettled. It isn’t until much later, after a triggering event and a quiet breakdown, that she admits what she’s been carrying: anxiety.
And even then, she resists the label. Because like so many of us, she thought anxiety meant panic attacks and visible meltdowns. She didn’t know that holding it all together for everyone else could take such a toll on the body.
Ava took action her whole life. She managed, fixed, and organized. Her feelings took a back seat in her life until she could no longer ignore it.
The Pattern I Didn’t Intend to Write
I never set out to write characters who live before they understand. But I think I’ve always been drawn to that space: the gap between what we do and what we later realize it meant. That moment when a character, child or adult, sits still long enough to ask:
“Why did I do that?”
“What am I carrying or feeling?”
“Who told me I had to hide?”
Not all of them find a perfect answer. Sometimes it’s enough to notice the question.
Why It Matters to Me, and Maybe to You
We live in a world that demands instant clarity. Label your feelings. Name your goals. Define your brand. However, the truth is that most of us live first and name it later.
I write for the kid who doesn’t know why they’re overwhelmed at school. For the adult who realizes too late that their coping mechanism has become their identity. Shoot, they don’t even know what a coping mechanism is, and neither did I. For the parent who doesn’t yet have the words to describe what their child is going through.
I don’t always offer resolution. But I do offer recognition. I want my readers to feel seen, even if the ending isn’t tied up in a pretty bow of understanding.
The Takeaway
If there’s one thread connecting Bluff, Hadley, Nathaniel, Ava, and even myself, it’s this:
Sometimes strength looks like action.
Sometimes growth involves recognizing what the action truly meant.
And sometimes the bravest thing we do is slow down enough to feel.
