After twenty-three years in the classroom, I never expected my second act would involve seeing my name on a book cover. Yet here I am, humbled and excited to share Through Quick and Quinn with the world.

The transition from teacher to author felt both natural and terrifying. Natural because storytelling had always been part of my teaching—finding narratives that would help students connect with difficult concepts or uncomfortable truths. Terrifying because creating fiction leaves one vulnerable in ways that lesson planning never did.

The seed for this novel was planted during my final ten years of teaching. I witnessed a troubling trend: each new class seemed to carry heavier anxiety than the last. Students who once would have bounced back from minor setbacks now spiraled into catastrophic thinking. To make matters worse, society seemed to lose its ability to “agree to disagree,” leaking a barrage of assumptions and judgments into our classroom community. Teenagers who should have been experimenting with identity and belief systems were instead paralyzed by fear of saying the wrong thing.

Quick and Quinn emerged from these observations—two very different teenagers navigating the same challenging emotional landscape. Quick, the thoughtful debater whose intellectual drive doesn’t extend to social situations, and Quinn, the old soul who was just biding her time until she would meet people at her transcendent level. I knew these kids. Not specifically, but archetypally. I had taught them, counseled them, and proudly watched them struggle and triumph year after year.

Writing their journey became my way of honoring all those students who passed through my classroom doors. The ones who taught me that adolescent struggles aren’t “just phases” but formative experiences deserving of recognition and respect. The ones whose resilience inspired me to develop classroom mindfulness practices that eventually found their way into this novel. The ones whose open-mindedness encouraged their peers and their teachers to see things from a new perspective.

When people ask me how much of the book is autobiographical, I answer truthfully: none of it and all of it. I never experienced the family trauma or social isolation of the characters, but I channeled decades of both personal and vicarious experiences as I crafted their stories. Both Quick and Quinn contain fragments of students I’ve known, parents I’ve collaborated with, and colleagues I’ve admired.

My hope for Through Quick and Quinn is simple: that it finds the readers who need it. That somewhere, teenagers struggling with anxiety might recognize themselves in these pages and feel less alone. That parents might gain insight into the complex internal worlds their children navigate. That educators might be reminded why the emotional welfare of students matters as much as, if not more than, academic achievement. That any and all readers can help to bring back the art of discourse and enlightenment.

Thank you for joining me on this new journey. After years of telling my students that their stories matter, it feels surreal to be sharing one of my own.