“Why Are You Writing A Book?”

If someone had told me ten years ago that I would write a memoir, I would have smiled politely and dismissed the idea completely. I didn’t grow up with dreams like that. I grew up believing that silence was strength, that obedience was the goal, and that personal stories — especially a woman’s — were something to keep to yourself.

Books weren’t tools for empowerment where I came from. They were used to reinforce beliefs, to prescribe certainty, to shape behavior. Storytelling wasn’t about expression. It was about control.

So when I started to write, it wasn’t to make a point or publish a book. It was to survive. Quietly. Privately. I wrote in notebooks, in margins, in phone apps while nursing babies at 2 a.m. I didn’t even call it writing. I just called it “getting it out.” I needed somewhere to place the weight of everything I was carrying — the questions, the confusion, the clarity that was beginning to rise up inside me. I wasn’t trying to be an author. I was trying to stay connected to myself. At that time, life felt like one long pivot. I had just left behind the only world I had ever known. We had nothing when we left. No savings. No clear plan. Just four kids in a minivan and a belief — a deep one — that there was more for us than the version of life we had inherited. I wasn’t running away from my past. I was moving toward something I couldn’t quite explain but absolutely knew was real.

That kind of knowing is hard to put into words. But I tried. For myself, at first. And slowly, I started to realize that what I was writing wasn’t just for me.

Women began reaching out. Sometimes it was in person, sometimes through DMs, sometimes quietly after a speaking event or over coffee. They didn’t want the dramatic version of the story. They didn’t need a perfect success arc. They wanted the real version — the middle. The rebuilding. The “how did you know?” and “what did it feel like?” and “how did you trust yourself when no one else understood?”I started answering them, honestly. And that’s when I began to see what this writing could be. Not a memoir for the sake of memoir, but a map. A mirror. A reminder that our lives are not defined by where we start, but by what we choose to claim.

The decision to write Dreams That Matter didn’t happen overnight. It came in layers. First, the courage to speak out loud what I had only written in private. Then, the discipline to shape those pieces into something meaningful. And finally, the clarity to realize that this story wasn’t just mine to hold. It was mine to give.

I wrote this book for the woman who is in transition, even if she hasn’t named it yet. For the woman who knows deep down that she is living a version of her life that doesn’t fully reflect who she is. For the woman who’s afraid to want more because she’s been taught that wanting is wrong. For the woman who is building a family, or a business, or a belief system from scratch — and doing it with no map, no permission, and more strength than she realizes. I wrote it for the mother trying to lead with integrity. For the leader who feels isolated by her own growth. For the woman who is slowly, quietly choosing to stop performing and start becoming.

This book is not a how-to. It’s not a guidebook. It’s not the story of a dramatic escape or an overnight transformation. It’s a deeply personal account of what it looks like to live in alignment — to walk through discomfort, to ask better questions, to tell the truth even when it’s messy. It’s about what happens when a woman finally takes the pen back and begins to write her life from a place of truth.

Because the dreams that matter are never handed to us. They are claimed. Written. Lived into.

And they don’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes they show up as a quiet moment in the kitchen. A question whispered under your breath. A choice made in the dark that changes everything.

The book is coming in 2026. But the story is already unfolding. And the reason I wrote it is simple: because I know what it’s like to need a story that sounds a little like yours. And to not be able to find it anywhere.

I hope Dreams That Matter fills that space. I hope it reminds you that your voice is not too much, your vision is not too late, and your story still belongs to you.

Because your life is not a script. It’s a creation.

And if you’ve been waiting for permission to begin, let this be it.

– Jasmine