Here you’ll find reflections, memories, and true stories from a life lived in the mountains (and sometimes in the margins). These are the pieces that don’t quite fit anywhere else—essays on family, forgiveness, stubborn hope, and the hard work of becoming. I hope you find something true here.
A quiet reflection on sobriety, mowing the yard over three days, and learning that strength isn’t pushing through—it’s returning, again and again.
A quiet spring morning in Virginia turns unexpectedly into summer, with reflections on night shifts, menopause, movement, and starting again.
A quiet visit to an empty summer theater becomes a reflection on creativity, waiting, and the slow return of inspiration.
After a winter of burnout and creative fog, a quiet morning, a train whistle, and a cleared balcony helped me return to writing—and to Radiant.
At the beach, building sandcastles with my daughters and oldest friend, I’m reminded of the beauty in creating—even when you know the tide will wash it all away. Reflections on presence, parenthood, and why we build anyway.
Reflections on a literary journey. And the fatigue that follows.
During a winter solstice beach trip, I reflected on the power of stillness, creative uncertainty, and the quiet promise that light will return—even after the longest night. A meditation on writing, resilience, and finding hope, minute by minute.
Book Three is DONE (So why don’t I feel anything?)
After finishing my third novel in one year, I reflect on the writer’s highs, the doubts that follow, and what it really means to keep showing up on the page. Join me as I explore the realities behind “THE END”—from first draft euphoria to chasing the magic of creativity in Radiant, Virginia.
Birthday Girls and Cheerleaders
On raising daughters, tattoos, and cheerleading—how motherhood means loving and letting go, even when it hurts.
On Doubt. And Rejection. And General Suckiness.
Querying for a literary agent can feel endless, isolating, and discouraging. But as I struggle with rejection, waiting, and doubt—it’s love for the story that carries me through the hardest days.
My Final Post About the Weather
Maybe. Ok, probably not.
All Right, Mother Nature. You can stop showing off now!
On sunrises and moonbeams. And the unpredictable beauty that brightens even the most ordinary days.
This is the most personal essay I’ve ever written—and the one that matters most to me. Becoming Ourselves is the story of my family’s journey through change, acceptance, and the unbreakable bonds that hold us together. It’s about what it means to love your children exactly as they are, even when their story takes an unexpected turn. I’m honored that Human Parts published this essay, and I hope it resonates with anyone who has navigated uncertainty, held onto hope, or learned to see the people they love in new and truer ways.
Reflecting on the comfort and creative energy found in familiar landscapes—and how returning home, in life and writing, can be an act of devotion.
An early December storm brings both ice and holiday lights, reflecting the messy, beautiful dualities of winter—and of life.
On loving, losing, and letting your child grow into themselves—even when it means saying goodbye to who you thought they were.
Six Cents: Finding Meaning (and Motivation) in Tiny Writing Wins
On my first month sharing essays online, the value of small creative milestones, and how even six cents can spark new inspiration.
Saying Goodbye to November: Reflections from a Mountain Overlook
A quiet November evening prompts reflection on family, change, and the passage of time from a mountain overlook in rural Virginia.
A Good Day: On family, football, and finally beating that team up north
Every fall, my family gathers—near or far—for Ohio State football, chili, and tradition. The game is great, but the memories are better.
Getting Sober Didn’t Just Save My Life—It Made Me a Writer
After decades of unfinished drafts and self-doubt, I finally completed my first novel—thanks to sobriety and a new approach to writing. In this personal essay, I share how getting sober transformed my creative process, helped me silence my inner critic, and turned my dream of being a writer into reality. If you’ve ever struggled to finish what you start, this story is for you.
Not every story is a happy one. We lost Daphne, or rather, she lost us, almost one year ago. But she deserves a spot here, too.
This essay was originally published by New Writer Welcome on Medium (November 2025).
An essay on fog, mountains, rejection, and finding light when you can’t see it.
On the first cold day after Thanksgiving, we head to our favorite local tree farm, wrangle dogs into holiday sweaters, and wrestle with yet another string of broken Christmas lights. A heartwarming look at family traditions, winter rituals, and the joy found in imperfection.
Thanksgiving Morning Reflections: Sunrise, Family, and Gratitude in a Shift-Worker’s Home
On a quiet Thanksgiving week night, the “Original Girards”—plus Ruthie the Yorkie and William the Great Dane—settle in for a masterclass in canine comfort. Through a playful scientific lens, discover how two beloved dogs turn an ordinary evening into a lesson on rest, family, and the quiet magic of simply being together.
Gratitude is its own kind of light. This year, we chased it—and found it, even in the dark.
Art, Identity, and the Power of Telling Your Own Story
November hosts Transgender Awareness Week. This year, I wanted to honor my daughter not just as her mother, but as someone who sees her—truly sees her—and believes her. Sometimes art expresses what words alone cannot.
A candid essay on the emotional middle ground of querying, waiting, and writing through the night shift. Hope, disappointment, and the quiet persistence it takes to keep going as a writer.
Meet Ruthie and William: the den’s resident odd couple, canine comedians, and daily inspiration.
A Writer’s Retreat—Without Words
A reflection on creative pauses, the beauty of quiet November days, and the truth that sometimes living—without writing—is its own kind of progress. A meditation on writer’s block, resilience, and the art of trusting the silence.
On my querying journey, maybe being a shadow on the surface is just another way of existing—proof I’m here, even if I can’t join the current just yet.
Travel is part habit, part discovery—like writing.
The story of how a single news article sparked the voice of Jojo Tiller and became the seed of A Thousand Ways to Say I’m Sorry.
My favorite part of night shift is the morning—the soft collision of exhaustion and wonder. Maybe dawn is more beautiful when you’re heading home from work rather than trudging in.
People don’t plan trips to Radiant. It doesn’t even earn a bold font on a map of Virginia—if it’s marked at all. It’s the kind of place Google Maps skips over—not quite big enough to matter, not quite small enough to disappear.
Fortunate Fortune: The Pleasure of what we enjoy is lost by wanting more.
Sometimes, all it takes is a traffic jam—or a stray fortune cookie—to remind us to slow down and really see what’s right in front of us.
Them’s fightin’ words.
Now what did you say again?
Written in 2012, when my oldest daughter Hannah was a teenager and our home was full of both drama and laughter. The moment felt enormous then—now it’s a tender memory, one of many that shaped us both. We survived. We became friends. This is a snapshot of that journey, from a time when the nest was still full.
Stories that Heal
I’ve spent years caring for patients in small-town Virginia, where every cough, fever, and tear has its own story. Sometimes, the stories I remember most aren’t about dramatic diagnoses or heroic saves—they’re about a child with a sore throat and a worried parent by her side. In the exam room, medicine and humanity meet in a hundred small moments of curiosity, comfort, and hope. Here’s one of those moments.
What I’m Learning from the Long Wait
Some days, waiting feels like its own full-time job. The longer I’m in this phase of querying and submission, the more I realize hope is both a discipline and a risk.
Witnesses
Sometimes, the world seems intent on showing you something, just when you most need a sign.
No Kings
Fiddler reminds us this story didn’t begin in Auschwitz. It began in Anatevka. With dehumanization. With the erosion of dignity. With governments that targeted the vulnerable and called it law. It began with a shrug. With neighbors looking the other way. With power saying: They are not like us.
The Power of Letting Go
A year ago, I thought my novel was finished. This week, I cut nearly 20,000 words—and for the first time, the story feels alive.
A Different Stage
Storytelling takes many forms, and this is one of mine—a way to stay grounded in my community while reaching toward something larger. A way to remember that beauty can rise from effort and collaboration. That even in a small mountain town, a little stage and a lot of heart can create something lasting.
All photos © Emily Bump Girard, taken in the Shenandoah Valley.