About Me
I’m Lia — a writer, a mum, and a woman learning to grow gently after a childhood that taught me the opposite.
My children shape me with everyday and every experience. I have a three-year-old daughter and a one-year-old son — and they are the little lights that fill my days with chaos, colour, and the kind of love that still catches me off guard.
They’re loud, wild, exhausting, beautiful… and they make me a better version of myself without even trying.
My other son was not here long, I held only briefly.
I don’t place him in heaven or another world — he simply exists in the quiet space his short life created.
In the way I love.
In the way I soften.
In the way I hold my children now.
Our time together was small, but it was real, and it shaped me more gently than I ever expected.
He is part of my story —
he is my son.
My husband and I met in 2020 — an uncertain time for everyone, yet somehow the moment my life began to make sense.
He helped me learn to love myself in a way I’d never known, and together we’ve built a relationship I once believed only existed in fiction.
With him, everything feels a little softer.
A little safer.
A little more like home.
My start in life was rough.
I’ve lived through mental, emotional, and sexual abuse — scars that shaped me, shadows I’m still learning to step out of.
Some days I feel like a woman made of scars and stretch marks… but I’m still here, still growing, still choosing gentleness where life once forced hardness.
Writing is where I put down the things I’ve carried for too long.
Motherhood is where I learn the kind of love I never received.
And my little family — all of us learning life, love, and laughter together — is where I finally feel whole.
My love for stories started when I was eight years old, sitting cross-legged with a copy of Charlotte’s Web in my hands. It was the first book that made me feel something — really feel something — and I carried that softness with me long after I closed the pages.
In my teens, it was poetry that cracked me open.
The rhythm, the ache, the way a few lines could carry more emotion than whole chapters of anything else. Poetry felt like a place I belonged — a place where feelings didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me.
I was never the “good” English student.
I was told I didn’t follow the rules, didn’t write properly, didn’t fit the structure.
They weren’t wrong.
I still don’t.
The way I write now is raw and honest and breaks every rule I was told to obey. I don’t write to be neat or correct — I write to feel, to breathe, to make sense of the mess I survived and the life I’m building.
My writing isn’t perfect.
But it’s true.
And maybe that’s the only rule that ever mattered.