I wrote The Water Lily in the three days after I returned from camp. It wasn’t a planned project so much as a way of processing everything I had just lived through — the kids, the stories, the way camp pulled threads of my own past and wove them into the present. The words came quickly, almost faster than I could type, like the story had been waiting for me.
This book is less about presenting polished answers and more about capturing the rawness of the experience — the fear, the beauty, the wiring that makes us who we are. I wanted to hold onto that week before it faded, to give it shape in language so it could keep speaking.
