I didn’t set out to become a published author.

I set out to care. To nurture. To create spaces where children feel safe, capable and deeply understood. Writing found me along the way.

My love of stories began long before I ever stepped into an early years setting. It began at home. My dad played a bigger role in this journey than he probably realises. He believed in imagination. He valued creativity. He never dismissed ideas as silly or unrealistic. In small but steady ways, he showed me that words matter and that expression has power. Looking back now, I can see that he planted a seed, one that would bloom in it’s own time.

Life unfolded as it does. I trained, I worked, I immersed myself in early childhood education. I became passionate not only about caring for children but about raising the profile of our profession. I balanced leadership, curriculum, study, motherhood. I poured myself into advocating for quality, for respect, for recognition of the complexity and significance of early years education.

And then there are my boys.

Motherhood changed everything. My three wonderful boys are my greatest teachers. They sharpened my understanding of development, resilience and individuality in ways no textbook ever could. Living alongside them deepened my empathy and strengthened my advocacy. They remind me daily that every child is competent, capable and deserving of being truly understood… not labelled, not limited, not reduced to a difficulty or diagnosis.

During one of my college modules, a lecturer asked us to write about dyslexia. It was, on the surface, simply an assignment. But for me, it was deeply personal. Dyslexia was not theoretical. It was part of our family life. It was present in the homework tears, the fatigue, the frustration, but also in the creativity, the problem-solving, the big thinking and the resilience that I saw shining through.

As I began to write, something shifted.

I wasn’t just analysing a learning difference. I was trying to capture how it feels. What it’s like when letters don’t stay still. When words wobble. When effort doesn’t always translate neatly onto a page. I began imagining how a child might explain it in their own voice. How powerful it would be for a child to open a book and see their experience reflected back at them with honesty, warmth and strength.

That assignment led to the first draft of Letters, Words and Wobbly Lines.

The early years educator in me ensured the language was respectful and child-centred. The advocate in me made sure it was strength-based. The mum in me made sure it was compassionate and real. And the illustrator in me began sketching; imperfect lines, big feelings, brave moments.

My family were my cheerleaders from the beginning. They read drafts. They reassured me when I doubted myself. They reminded me that this story mattered. My dad’s early encouragement echoed in the background. My boys, in their honesty, their vulnerability and their courage, shaped every single page.

Becoming a published author wasn’t a departure from who I am professionally; it was an extension of it. I have always believed in children’s voices. I have always advocated for inclusive practice and meaningful partnerships with families. Writing simply became another way to do that work.

Letters, Words and Wobbly Lines is more than a book to me. It reflects my belief that children deserve to see themselves in stories, that differences are strengths, and that sometimes the most powerful journeys begin with an ordinary college assignment and the courage to follow where it leads.