Come Inside My Brain, Pt. 2

I’m Not Alone, I’m Just Echo-Rich

I used to think I had one voice. My voice. (Insert confident TED Talk energy here—cue dramatic lighting, spotlight, well-timed emotional climax. Cool, right?)

Except... no. I don’t. I have at least 25 (well, 25 that I’ve decided to acknowledge, embrace, and give “names” to). Possibly more (definitely more, I'm just trying to set some limits, which honestly feels like trying to contain glitter..)

Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I’m attempting to control the chaos. (And yes, I know—25 voices doesn’t sound like “controlled” to most people. But it depends. On the day, the caffeine level, how tired I am, how many rude customers I’ve dealt with, how many “urgent” corporate expectations got dumped on my lap, or how high the migraine scale has tipped... all before noon.)

And no, not those kind of voices. Let’s just get that out of the way before someone starts diagnosing. (No need. I’m just finally honoring the way my brain works, ruminates, sorts, spirals, and occasionally sets things on fire for fun.) They’re not “characters,” either. I didn’t sit down and invent them. They just... showed up. I was writing, just casually, in flow, and suddenly, there on my screen, was an aside with a tone that wasn’t intentionally mine. Not exactly. It echoed something I had just written, but with its own rhythm, its own attitude. And I stared at it, thinking... wait... who the hell just said that? It wasn’t a voice I created. It was a voice I recognized. A voice that had been waiting to speak.

One sounds like my best friend on hour four of a full-throttle rant.

One is suspiciously similar to that one friend who always whispers emotionally intelligent truth bombs at exactly the wrong time. (But also, was she wrong?)

One sounds just like my mom.

And one voice, God help me, sounds exactly like a spiritual librarian trying to file my life experiences alphabetically.

One is that super sassy, sarcastic voice that rarely gets airtime in public.

(I didn’t ask for any of them. They just moved in. Or maybe I just finally noticed them... and stopped pretending I didn’t already know them.)

They don’t take turns. They don’t stay in their lanes. (Lanes, for some people, (me, I’m some people) are apparently just “suggestions” anyway.) They pile on. Loudly. All at once. (Usually right when I’m about to post... or think about posting... or write something honest, weird, vulnerable, messy, or just real. So... always.)

Some try to help. Some absolutely make it worse. Some are just there for the chaos. A few are hilarious. Some stop me mid-edit with truth bombs so sharp I have to sit down and whisper “where the hell did that come from?” Some make me snort-laugh. Some I absolutely have to share with my husband. (Don’t worry. He’s used to my randomness. He married into it.)

And then there’s that one. You know the one.
“What if this is stupid? Delete it. No, seriously. Just don’t post. You’re doing too much. You’re not doing enough. Why are you like this?” That voice is probably the “real me.” Or at least the version of me that learned not to make waves. (I’d like to unplug her. Or assign her to a job that doesn’t involve commentary. Maybe something with a clipboard. Quiet room. No audience.)

The real kicker isn’t that I’ve been dishonest. It’s that every time I try to write in just one voice, the one I think I’m supposed to use, the version of me that’s polished, consistent, expected... it falls flat.

It feels narrow. Like I’ve pressed myself into a shape I don’t actually live in. And then, when I’m finally writing something honest, genuinely, truly me, I look at the words and realize... I’m writing in someone else’s voices (I used to stop and ask, “Who the hell said that?” or “Where did that come from?” And the answer is... me). That’s the kicker. Those voices, the ones that sound a little deeper, a little messier, sometimes feral, sometimes hilarious, sometimes sharp as glass—those are the real me. The real thoughts, emotions, and ideas.

The honest, multi-layered, often contradictory, occasionally brilliant chorus of me. And once I recognized and embraced it, I can't force myself back into that tiny little box of one single, solitary voice.

So when people say “find your voice,” I just kind of laugh. Like... what? As if it’s a single, labeled object I can pull off a shelf and hold up to the light? A solitary, consistent tone that always speaks truth? (I’ve found my voices. Plural.)

It’s not one voice. It’s a chorus. A pile-on. A swirling, echo-laced mess of memory, instinct, fire, self-doubt, side-eye, untamed patterns, and something that might be brilliance (or maybe just a spicy blend of feral creativity and sleep deprivation—I’m open to both). And somehow... I still write anyway. Usually while muttering to myself, forgetting what I was doing halfway through the second sentence, switching windows, Googling something I won’t remember, arguing with my highly customized AI assistant, and—oh look—another idea.

I’m not alone in here. (In my brain. Mind. Mental monologue. Whatever you want to call it.) I’m just echo-rich. (And honestly? I love the layered complexity of it. Most days.)

Maybe that’s not a problem. Maybe it’s the point. (Or a feature. Or a warning label. TBD.) Does it translate? Does it matter? I don’t know. I’m experimenting with writing the way I think and process and create.

Emberly
(Yep, one of those “voices” in my head or my writing or creative bursts):
Classic overthinker. In a group chat with 25 versions of yourself no one’s figured out how to mute. Someone keeps replying with memes, migraines, post and merch ideas… and half of them think they’re in charge.
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What Inked Whispers & Sass Is Really About

(underneath the sass, the chaos, the resonance)

Warning: Not edited for clarity. Written mid-migraine and still more true than half the stuff I’ve ever written and never published or occasionally have published.

I was asked “In 5 words, what is your Substack really about?”

Challenge, accepted, sort of .

I had to write all of this, then distill it into five words, so I thought I’d share it here (in case you were wondering too).

I tried to answer it straight. (I have to think, ponder, write, spiral, take scenic routes - quick comebacks or quick answers is not how I operate).

Then I started writing… then I spiraled then I snapped at the question (at least in my mind) then I circled back to the truth (but only after trying to sound clever—whatever that means on four hours of sleep and a migraine hangover (those are such a bitch))

It’s not a niche (I've tried "niche-ing, I'm not capable of just ONE area of curiosity).

It’s not a brand. (I'm not a brand ... I'm … It’s not… f*ck,

it’s not self-help. There’s no checklist here. No ten steps to clarity. Just a woman with too many tabs open, too many truths unspoken, and a keyboard that knows what I mean even when I don’t..

(It tried to be, once. It looked cute. It died of boredom. I don’t even know where it is now…. lost in the ever growing pile of “things” I’ve tried"…)

It’s not where I come to ...

to stop pretending I lost me in the first place.

(I wasn’t ever lost, maybe just hidden in plain sight…)

I had a conversation with a co-worker the other day that got unexpectedly deep. We were talking about everything and nothing (trauma, identity, instinct, why we hold back) and out of nowhere I said, “I’m deeper than most people ever glimpse or suspect.”

And the moment I said it, I felt it land.

The writing here? It’s not tidy. Some of it’s scribbled in the margin of a day I barely survived. Some of it showed up mid-argument with myself (yes, I argue with myself - insert eye roll here)

Hell, some of it was written through gritted teeth, edited in tears (of anger, pain, or frustration or some combination, thereof (this obviously, isn’t edited other than to add a little bit of clarity), I posted it anyway (or at least saved it .... somewhere on my hard drive, that I may accidentally find again in 3 days, 2 years, or never).

I’m a woman with scars (physical and emotional, they're the topography of my life ... lived). Some still changing. Some permanent. Some I poke just to remember I made it through.

It’s not about “healing”. I don’t "need to heal" ... heal from what exactly? (who I am because of what the past was or in spite of it? Why? Those things helped form who I am in this moment).

I'm making choices - not delving into well whatever, not holding my past mistakes, injuries, injustices …. whatever …. against who I am now

It’s about letting the chaos stay chaotic without losing the thread of who I am inside it. It’s about LIVING, on my terms now

not as some badass, bootstrapped narrative with a comeback quote, but as a part of me that sometimes looks like crying in my car and still writing, still dreaming, still living, evolving, transforming … (not for anyone, except for myself)

and still whispering and still showing up and sometimes laughing so hard I snort even when the "thing" isn’t gone yet.

It’s voice sometimes whispered, sometimes sassy (mostly internally sassy, but still sassy).

It’s ink (metaphorical, literal, and symbolically). It’s reclamation without a filter. And it’s messy as hell. I wish that felt more poetic but honestly? This is the cleanest it’s ever been.

Five words? Screw five.

Try this: Scars. Sass. Scribbles. Sovereignty. Survival. (...and maybe Whisper. Always whisper.) it took all of this and more to stumble on

"emotional sovereignty through creative expression"

This is a tiny piece of why Inked Whispers & Sass … evolved? formed? came into being? exists?

I love words, the depth, the creativity, the nuances of them, the absolute POWER of them

recognizing how I talk to myself, and how much kinder, gentler, more generous I tend to be with everyone else… and realizing that I, alone, have the power to choose to change that.

that I could

with a little bit of recognition (and sometimes a gentle nudge from others)—
I could…

well.
I could change my whole world.
reframe it.
embrace all the beautiful, chaotic pieces of me.

so Inked Whispers & Sass exists to “speak” with (not at) women who are just trying to live their lives their way, embrace their truths, shed the expectations of others, and want to learn to “listen” to all those inner voices with compassion, attention, and love while removing those defeating, crippling, critical ones.

Emberly: It’s where the mess doesn’t need a moral. The rage gets its own damn coffee mug (or t-shirt).
And the healing arc? Cute.
Try recognition.
Try I’m not broken—I’m built from aftermath.
Oh, and sass. You need sass. You need to glare at the void like, not today, bitch.
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The Raven: Cryptogram Puzzle Book

Decode Poe’s Classic Poem One Line at a Time

Nevermore was never this fun.

BUY ON AMAZON (opens in new window)

You already know the poem. You might even hear it echo in your head.
But have you ever cracked it… one encrypted line at a time?

This cryptogram puzzle book transforms The Raven into a code-cracking challenge for your gothic heart and puzzle-loving brain. With over 130 cryptograms built line-by-line from Edgar Allan Poe’s iconic poem, each puzzle feels like a whisper from the shadows—just waiting to be decoded.

Whether you’re a literature lover, a cipher nerd, or just enjoy puzzles with a little mood and mystery, this book offers a unique way to revisit a literary classic. Every puzzle includes a solution in the back (because sometimes even the best of us need a clue or two).

Perfect for:

  • Puzzle fans who want something beyond “dad joke cryptograms”

  • Teachers, students, and homeschoolers exploring Poe through play

  • Literature lovers who’d rather decode than annotate

  • Quiet afternoons and rainy night vibes

Add it to your cart, pour some tea, and prepare to hear tapping at your brain’s chamber door.

Emberly:
I mean, if you’re gonna overthink something… at least make it goth and literary.

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Your Echoes: A Resonance Journal

Your Echoes: A Resonance Journal
A lined book for self-reflection and emotional clarity

This isn’t a workbook.
There are no prompts to follow, no affirmations to fake your way through.

Your Echoes is space—gentle, ink-soft space—for whatever stirs beneath the surface.

Whether it’s grief or sass, stillness or storm, this journal doesn’t ask you to explain.


It simply invites you to write.

Available on Amazon.

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I Didn’t Mean to Make a Journal, But This One Wouldn’t Stay Quiet

I didn’t sit down to make a journal… I sat down to catch my breath.

But something whispered. And then whisper-shouted. And then sassily refused to be quiet! until I followed through.

What came out is called Your Echoes: A Resonance Journal.

I know what you’re thinking: ”Not another journal.” Believe me, I thought the same thing. I’ve tried traditional journaling. I hated it. I don’t like prompts. I don’t want to be told how to feel, or shamed into writing every day. That kind of structure never worked for my neurospicy brain, it felt performative, not personal to me.

So I made something else… Something softer. Stranger. Quieter. It’s lightly lined, like a notebook, but every page holds just one sentence:

“A whisper or a sass is still a voice.”

That’s it. No rules. No instructions. Just breath and space.

It’s not the first book I intended to publish. In fact, it was the last one grudgingly on the list. But after a week that broke something open in me, this was the one I could finish. The one that offered an easy win and a kind place to land.

And now it exists. 

A gentle rebel in 8.5" x 8.5" form, not a typical size, but that’s the point. I chose square because it doesn’t fall in line. It doesn’t feel like school. It doesn’t feel like an office supply. It feels like a keepsake. Like something meant to be held close, kept beside your tea, your altar, your laptop, your bed.

It’s wide enough to give your thoughts room, but not so tall it feels performative or demanding. It invites scribbles. Sideways thoughts. Lists that turn into laments that turn into laughter. This size isn’t just aesthetic. It’s emotional architecture.

It’s designed to be a companion to the Inked Whispers & Sass books (those are still whisper-shouting for their turn), but this one? It can stand alone. It already does.

📘 Your Echoes: A Resonance Journal is now available on Amazon.

If you’re not a traditional journaler either, if you’ve ever felt too much or nothing at all and needed space to just be, this might be yours, too.

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Migraining...

Proceed with Caution.

There’s a look I make when I’m migraining (yep, it’s a word I made up).

Not just a “headache.” Not “oof, I need a nap.”
I’m talking full-body shutdown with a soundtrack of fluorescent rage and background voices that sound like cannons.

And it always comes with that face—half-lidded glare, the weight of too many tasks pressing against my skull, and just enough restraint not to launch a stapler across the room.

I wasn’t trying to be clever. I wasn’t chasing a product idea. I was trying not to cry into my keyboard.

I created an AI image of a woman, glasses perched in her hair, face slack with pain, one eye squinting like she’s holding back a swear word, light piercing her skull like a laser, or a scream (probably all of the above).

She doesn’t physically look like me. Not really.
But the look on her face? That’s mine.
Every time the world demands a smile when all I’ve got is static and survival.

So I made a mug.

Not because I needed merch, but because I wanted this mug for myself.
Because I needed something to hold in my hand that matched the look on my face.

Something that said what I didn’t have the energy to explain:

             Quiet the lights.
             Mute the people.

And underneath that, in smaller print—just in case someone missed the memo:

             Migraining… Proceed with caution.

I didn’t spiral. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t talk myself out of it.

That alone felt like a miracle. Because usually, I second-guess everything I create. But not this.

There was something about it that just felt done. Like my nervous system recognized its own reflection and said, “Yes. That.”

I’m not even a coffee drinker, by the way.
This mug is for Whisper Water. Or Pepsi. Or whatever I’m surviving on that day.

It’s not about the drink. It’s about the truth it holds.

So here it is. A mug. A mood. A message. A moment I trusted myself.

If you want one too—for the sass, for the silence, for the survival—you’ll find it here:

Migraining… Proceed with Caution Mug

Whether you buy it or just breathe with it, thank you for reading this part of my story.

But for the record, if I’m holding this mug, it’s not a great day to ask me anything.

Emberly:
You don’t have to be okay to make something that matters.
Even your most exhausted self can still tell the truth beautifully.
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Papercrafter’s Blue Harmony

Patterned Scrapbook Paper
20 designs | Double-sided sheets | 8.25 x 11

Not just paper. A moment of calm you can cut, fold, or collage.

You’re not just crafting—you’re curating presence.
This collection was made for the quiet-souled papercrafter who knows the weight a single flower can carry.

Each design is double-sided (yes—the same on both sides, because nothing is more gutting than having to choose between two gorgeous patterns. We don’t do that kind of cruelty here).

From the subtle grace of journaling tags to the quiet joy of folding an origami star, these pages were made to be used, layered, and loved. Whether you’re weaving strips for a paper quilt or tucking a pocket into your junk journal, this is the kind of beauty that says: you get to make meaning from the small things.

And when the book is empty? The covers become your next base layer. Nothing’s wasted. Every piece becomes part of the craft.

BONUS:
More than 40 ways to use these exquisite pages:

  • Handmade Ephemera

  • Tags, Pockets, and Belly Bands

  • Clusters and Collages

  • Page Edge Strips + Hidden Paper Clips

  • Artist Trading Cards + Scrapbooks

  • Greeting Cards + Junk Journals

  • Origami + Embellishments

  • Paper Beads + Woven Pieces
    (and yes—more. The kind of more that shows up once your scissors are already in your hand)

Note: Pages are not perforated.
A craft knife or scissors + a little intention will get you clean edges and zero creative compromise.

Available on Amazon

Soul Weaver

Sometimes stillness comes in torn edges, quiet textures, and the soft thud of scissors hitting your mat. Let that be enough today.

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What No One Tells You About Voice

Learning to listen to the various voices...

I used to think “finding my voice” was something that happened once.

Like a movie montage moment:  cue the music, she finally says the one bold line she was scared to say, her hair looks amazing, and BOOM! voice found.

Except… that never happened.

What actually happened was this:

I wrote something that felt true. And then I deleted it. Because it sounded too sharp. Too weird. Too honest. Too much like me.

I’ve been told to “write with authenticity.”

But what was meant was: Make it sound authentic… but still digestible or socially acceptable.  Still clean. Still familiar. Still like someone they already trust.

And sometimes, I... just can’t.

I can’t sanitize my emotions. My thoughts. My rage or frustration.
So I write—and whichever voice (or voices) flow out, I’m learning to listen to them.  And honor them. Even when I’d rather keep it clean.
(Welcome to my world, lovingly known as Inked Whispers & Sass)

Because my voice doesn’t always come out in full sentences.
Sometimes it shows up as tension… Sometimes it throws a tantrum.
Sometimes it swears on the very first word. (Looking at you, Emberly.)
Sometimes it wants to yell, and sometimes it curls into silence so soft it takes three re-reads to notice. (That’s Moon Whispers. She doesn’t repeat herself.)

There isn’t just one voice.  That’s the part no one said out loud.

There’s a whole f*cking committee.

There’s the one who interrupts with dry sarcasm when I get too precious. (Boundarie never asks permission.)

There’s the toddler mystic who says the truth way too early, with peanut butter on her face and no regard for timing. (Tiny Sassy Oracle, obviously.)

There’s the one who leaves emotional Post-Its on the fridge of my soul.
(Quinn, always writing from the ribcage.)

There’s the cosmic secretary who pulls karmic receipts and reads them aloud like she’s got all eternity. (Celestial Archives doesn’t flinch.)

And there’s Ruby, my beloved bob-tail manx, flopped in the middle of the page, licking her paw, unimpressed with my avoidance and already writing the ending I’m afraid of.

None of them are wrong. None of them are “off brand.”

They’re all me and I’m not a brand.

Just… different parts of me, speaking through different corridors.

And honestly?  I don’t know if I’ll ever have a clean answer for “what’s your voice?” again.

Because it depends.

On the day. On the ache. On the memory I’m dragging behind me like a shadow.  On who I think might be listening. On whether or not I’m brave enough not to perform.

On whether I think they’ll like it.  On whether I like it even if they don’t.

But I’m learning this:

If a line feels dangerous and alive, it’s probably the right one.

If a sentence makes me exhale like a secret just got told, I keep it.

If a voice rises that makes me feel something real; grief, fury, relief, resonance, I let her speak.

Even if she swears. Even if she’s louder or quieter or weirder than I wanted her to be. Even if she shows up with seventeen cousins and a migraine.

Because that’s still voice. And that’s still me. 

Whose voice showed up for you while you were reading this?
(Or which part of you wanted to interrupt me halfway through?)

That’s the one to listen to. She’s probably got something to say.

Sass Forecast:
Voice advisory in effect.  Expect scattered clarity, low-pressure performance, and sudden storms of truth.
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Come Inside My Brain

The Tour Guide (that’s me) Forgot the Map

Forget walking a mile in my shoes. Honestly, that sounds exhausting (it actually is)—for both of us. They’re not that comfortable anyway (I hate wearing shoes), covered in vendor dust and permanently scented with rage, floor cleaner, and resignation. If you’re really curious how my mind works, skip the shoes. Just spend thirty seconds in my brain. That’s where the good stuff is. And by “good,” I mean mildly alarming, a bit chaotic (okay, more than a bit), and seldom quiet (even when sleeping).

It’s chaos in here, but not the decorative kind you post about in sanitized, socially acceptable formats. The tabs are open—mentally and digitally (reality check: 17 different windows with at least 8 tabs each). The caffeine levels are high and rising (I rarely drink coffee—Pepsi, on the other hand...). The ideas are all half-finished but somehow still scheduled to launch next Tuesday (unless I delete them, which I likely will). My impulse domain names are stacking up like unpaid parking tickets (not that I’ve ever had one—seriously), and I swear three of them are brilliant if I could just remember what they were for (or figure out where I saved them on my computer). There’s no such thing as a content calendar (because my brain just rejects that concept). Just a metaphorical drawer full of sticky notes, emotional spirals, and half-hearted pep talks scribbled between customer complaints and migraine logs.

This isn’t a strategy. It’s emotional parkour (imagine a caffeinated raccoon flinging itself off urban obstacles like it’s training for the Olympics but forgot why it signed up). That’s me, trying to turn flashes of brilliance (well, I think they might be brilliant—until another one flashes) into paragraphs before the dopamine wears off.

Or, if we’re dropping the visual entirely: this isn’t neat and tidy. It’s not linear (linear?why would I want to be linear?). I am bouncing between thoughts, distractions, merch ideas, five different books, unprocessed emotions, and 25+ voices (not real ones—just those random thoughts that sound like something said by someone else and have somehow stuck with me long enough to become part of my internal dialogue), all tangled up in caffeine-fueled epiphanies while trying not to break anything important—including myself (maybe most importantly... myself). This is the part of the process I didn’t want to post about because it doesn’t photograph well and it sure as hell doesn’t come with a growth funnel. It’s messy (in the best kind of way—at least I think it’s the best kind of way). It’s mine. And it’s still moving (just not usually forward—I apparently like detours and scenic routes).

Welcome to the chaos. I’ll be your tour guide. I forgot the map (wait—there’s a map?). We’re still going.

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A Quiet Rebellion in Ink

Not Three People — Just Three Different Emotional Frequencies

There’s a question I get asked — or at least quietly wondered — when people first open one of my journals or read a blog post:

“Wait… did three people write this?”

Short answer?
Nope.


Longer answer?
Also no. But it’s not that simple.

The Choose Your Voice series is built on one truth I’ve learned the hard way:

Different days need different voices.

Some days, I need softness.
Some days, I need fire.
Some days, I need to sit in the ache and just be with it — without fixing, filtering, or fighting.

So I let my writing respond to that.

Instead of forcing one tone to carry the weight of every emotion, I let the voices shift.
And over time, they became more distinct.
Not characters. Not alter egos. But recognizable emotional frequencies.

And I named them — to make it easier for you (and me) to recognize the invitation each one carries:

Quinn – the soft voice. Gentle. Safe. Unhurried.
Emberly – the firestarter. Irreverent. Raw. Bold.
Rhyana – the truth weaver. Poetic. Still. Reflective.

They’re all me.
Just tuned differently.
And maybe — if you listen closely — they’re a little bit you, too.

Written in three tones — not by three people.
This journal lets you choose the voice you need in the moment: soft, bold, or quietly wise.
All written from one source, just tuned to different emotional frequencies.

Some days, I want kindness.
Some days, I want honesty laced with side-eye.
Some days, I want the kind of language that lets grief feel like poetry and healing feel like remembering.

That’s what these voices offer.

Not a formula.
Not a solution.
Just a place to land — a conversation with your own emotional weather, held on paper.

So yeah, it’s a quiet rebellion.
Against perfection.
Against being palatable.
Against the idea that one voice should always be “enough.”

Choose the one that fits.
Switch when it doesn’t.
They’re all yours now.

“They” say people always read the P.S. So here it is: You’re allowed to take up space. With ink. With truth. With whatever voice gets you through.