Some places hold a kind of quiet magic that you don't fully notice until you're sitting inside them, coffee in hand, watching the light move across the room… and suddenly you realize: this place has always been part of my story.

That's how I feel about Arizona Mountain Coffee Co. So when it came time to find the perfect home for the Highland Cow Coffee Co. scene in The Christmas Witch, I didn't have to look very far.

Once Upon a time… not too long ago, I tried to separate everything. Writing over here. Filmmaking over there. Family life in its own neat compartment. Personal struggles tucked quietly behind the scenes. I thought that’s what professionalism looked like. Clean lines. Clear divisions. Creative work that appeared effortless because the living of it was invisible. But the longer I create, the more I realize something simple and freeing:

My life is not separate from my stories. It is the soil they grow in.

Not every story wants to be written in winter.

I’ve tried to force it before… sitting at my desk while the world outside is quiet and cold, willing the words to come. Sometimes they do. But sometimes they don’t. And when they don’t, I’ve learned not to panic. Because some stories are seeds. And seeds don’t bloom just because we want them to. They wait for warmth. They wait for light. They wait for the right internal season.

Dear Creative,You Don’t Have to Pick Just One Thing.

For a long time, I thought I was doing creativity “wrong.” I love writing books… but I also love filmmaking, song-writing, and painting. I feel called to storytelling… but across mediums. I’ve always loved to explore worlds through songs, novels, scripts, directing, events, and community. And everywhere I looked, the advice felt the same:

Pick one thing. Niche down. Focus harder.

So I tried. And every time I did, something in me dimmed.

One of the questions I get asked most often, especially after screenings, festivals, or creative events, is this: “How did you fund your film?” It’s a fair question. Your story deserves to be told. Even if it starts humbly. Especially if it does. Money can feel like the biggest gatekeeper in filmmaking. The thing that stands between a story living on the page and finally breathing on screen. And for a long time, I think many of us were taught (directly or indirectly) that films only get made when someone else gives you permission.

A love letter to cozy, character-driven films.

I’ve always been drawn to stories that unfold gently. The ones that don’t rush to impress. The ones that linger in silence. The ones that trust the audience enough to let meaning rise slowly, like warmth spreading through cold hands. In a world that feels louder and faster by the day, I find myself craving stories that don’t shout to be heard. Stories that sit beside you instead of pulling you forward. Stories that leave room to breathe.

Directing The Christmas Witch has been one of the most transformative experiences of my creative life. It asked something of me that writing alone never had: a willingness to trust. Trust myself. Trust my team. Trust the story. Trust, I learned, is its own kind of surrender… a loosening of the grip I didn’t even realize I had. I’ve always associated trust with letting go of control, and while I wasn’t sure at first whether that was a strength or a vulnerability, this year taught me it’s both. It has led me down incredible paths, and it’s also stretched me in ways that required me to pause, reevaluate, and grow. Directing isn’t about holding every detail in your hands. It’s about opening your hands enough so others can hold the story with you.

Another year is closing softly, quietly, like a storybook page turning under warm lantern light. And as I sit here reflecting on everything that unfolded, I feel both humbled and deeply proud. This year stretched me, transformed me, held me, and taught me. It asked me to rise in new ways while also returning to pieces of myself I thought I had outgrown. More than anything, it reminded me why I tell stories in the first place: to create connection, to offer comfort, to leave a little light for someone else to find their way. Here are the moments that shaped my year and what I’m carrying with me into the next chapter.

The moment I stepped through the door of Woodland Wellness, I could already feel the Amberlight Apothecary stirring to life. The scent of herbs and candle wax, the way sunlight pooled across the floor, the quiet hum of transformation… it was as if the world I’d written had finally decided to step out of the page and breathe beside us. This enchanting transformation wouldn’t have been possible without my dear friend Ryanna Hendrix, the owner of Woodland Wellness. Her kindness, creativity, and willingness to open her space to our production brought so much heart to this part of the film. I’m endlessly grateful to her for sharing it with us.

Directing is one of those roles that looks glamorous from the outside, but when you’re in the middle of it, it’s equal parts creativity, problem-solving, and trust. Every day on set is full of decisions—some small, some huge—all of which shape how a story comes alive on screen. Today, I want to share a few of my favorite lessons and tools with you—whether you’re a filmmaker yourself, a storyteller curious about the process, or just someone who loves a peek behind the scenes.

When I first stepped into the world of film, I didn’t expect to find myself in the director’s chair. Writing has always been my first love, but directing? That felt like another world entirely. And yet, over time, I’ve discovered how naturally the two roles intertwine. Stories are meant to be seen and felt, not just read—and directing has given me a new way to bring them to life. Today, I want to share a few reflections from my director’s journey so far, in case you’re curious about what it looks like behind the scenes (or secretly dreaming of directing your own stories one day).

There’s a moment in every creative journey when the intangible becomes real… when a story you've held in your heart begins to breathe outside of you. Directing is where that moment lives for me. It’s the bridge between dream and embodiment, and somehow, it still feels like alchemy every single time. Here’s what it’s like to direct through the lens of someone who still can’t quite believe this is real… but knows in her bones it is.