In my last post, I talked about the other side of self-publishing—the part that isn’t glamorous, the part that doesn’t always get shared. What I didn’t realize at the time was that post was only the beginning of a much larger conversation about change.

Over the past year and a half, my life has shifted in ways I never could have planned for.

My marriage of 30 years came to an end.
I took on a second job to make sure my income stayed stable.
I opened my home to my daughter and her family.
And I made the decision to step out of my comfort zone and show up on social media—something that does not come naturally to me.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am not very good at social media. With everything going on, I chose one day a week to post. Maybe that will change someday. Maybe consistency will come with time. But for now, baby steps feel like the right kind of growth. Sometimes moving forward doesn’t mean rushing—it means choosing not to stand still.

The year has barely begun, and already another change is knocking.

My daughter and her family have been allowed to move. I am incredibly happy for them… and also incredibly sad. I’ve grown attached to my grandkids in ways I never expected. The house has been louder, fuller, warmer. Letting that go isn’t easy.

But the opportunity in front of my daughter is a good one. They won’t be too far away, and there will be weekends filled with visits, laughter, and long drives that are absolutely worth it.

And with that open door for them, another one quietly opened for me.

After looking at what I made in 2025 and realizing that—even with two jobs—I still struggled at times to pay bills and simply live, it became clear that another change is necessary. Selling my home is not a decision I came to lightly. I’ve lived here for nearly 28 years. This house holds memories, heartbreak, healing, and survival.

But selling it would allow me to clean up debt, find something more affordable, and—most importantly—go back to one job so I can focus on writing and creating again.

I won’t lie. The idea scares me.

Something new always does.

But if last year taught me anything, it’s that change is not always a bad thing. Sometimes fear is just a sign that you’re choosing growth. And this time, I won’t be doing it alone. I have the support of my girls, and that makes all the difference.

Change doesn’t always arrive gently. Sometimes it uproots us. Sometimes it asks us to let go of what’s familiar before we feel ready. But if I’ve learned anything through all of this, it’s that change can also create space—space to breathe, to heal, to create, and to become who we’re meant to be next.

And maybe that’s the real benefit of change.

Not that it’s easy.
But that it makes room for something honest.

And then—this morning—something else changed.

I’ve been at a standstill with Free From the Looking Glass for a while now. Stuck. Spinning. Waiting for something to click. This morning, a scene surfaced in my mind—quietly, unexpectedly—and suddenly a few missing pieces fell into place.

It reminded me why I keep choosing this path.
Why I keep writing.
Why I keep opening myself up, even when it’s uncomfortable.

To share that joy, here’s a small look inside Far from Oz.

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Far from Oz

Dorothy Rose

I don’t know how long I stood there, gazing out the window at his room, lost in the memories that swirled like shadows in my mind. Time slipped away, stealing with it the memories I would never reclaim. Tucked into bed, the blanket cocooned around me, I lay still, listening to the silence that echoed like a hollow cavern. Fear gripped me, a chill whisper in the darkness, as his dreams haunted my own, intertwining our fates in a web of shared terror.

In the depths of my mind, I drifted into the past, where the walls of my tiny room faded into the familiar confines of my childhood home. My mother’s cries pierced the night, a symphony of anguish that echoed in my soul. I hesitated, my footsteps faltering as I approached her door, the weight of dread heavy upon my shoulders.

“The doorway is locked,” her voice cried out, a desperate plea for sanctuary from the encroaching darkness. With trembling hands, I reached for the doorknob, each click of the latch a thunderous echo in the silence that surrounded me. As the door swung open, I was drawn into the abyss of her nightmares, where truth and illusion blurred into one.

“I’m so sorry, child,” the voice whispered, its words dripping with deceit. But I knew the truth, buried deep within the recesses of my fractured memories. My mother’s love was a beacon in the darkness, guiding me through the labyrinth of lies that threatened to consume me. And though her final words pierced my heart like a dagger, I clung to the flickering light of her love, knowing that it would lead me home.