where the interior life meets the open range
the misfit west explores the vast psychological and emotional terrain of the American West — the wind-scoured places, the unspoken histories, the inheritances we carry even when we think we’ve outrun them.
These are personal essays for anyone who has ever felt out of place, out of step, or out of answers — and yet keeps walking toward a version of themselves that feels truer than the myth.
About the Publication
Out here, the landscape works on you.
It rearranges what you think you know about loneliness, lineage, addiction, survival, love, and whatever we mean when we say “home.”
In these essays, I investigate the quiet dramas that unfold beneath the surface — grief that breaks open years later, family patterns that echo across generations, the strange physics of staying alive, and the ways a person tries to build a life with both hands full of questions.
This is not the West of postcards or cowboy clichés.
It’s the one made of windburn, memory, estrangement, reclamation, and unexpected beauty — a place where an interior life can finally stretch its legs.
What You’ll Find Here
- Lyrical, place-driven personal essays rooted in Wyoming, Colorado, and the high plains
- Psychological explorations of family systems, trauma, resilience, and the unquiet mind
- Memoir fragments stitched with research, memory, and sharp self-interrogation
- A voice for those who don’t fit the mythic West — or any myth at all
Why the misfit west
Because some of us were raised in the shadows of silos, railroads, coal pits, and quiet living room catastrophes — and still found ways to become ourselves.
Because belonging is complicated.
Because the West is too.
And because writing it down is sometimes the only way to tell the truth.
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LATEST POSTS
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chlorine tongue
Some essays, some days, end up a choppy mess. My writing is on training wheels as I pull up ChatGPT on my phone and feed it memory after memory noticing the air starting to smell of bleach when the tears come. I use my thumbs to slide type memory after memory trying to Frankenstein the…
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sweet and bruised
The Lariat always smelled like three things: fryer oil that refused to cool, bourbon poured by a hand that didn’t care where it landed, and the soft, bruised perfume of women who’d learned to keep their backs to the wall. The carpet—if it was still carpet—held the residue of every decade it had survived. Walk…
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keeping the craft, sharpening the truth
I have been writing with AI.So if one of my stories misrepresented a character or botched a minor detail, you can blame it on Claude.But the rest—the marrow of it, the sediment of my memories—that’s mine. This is the only place where I can say the things no one in my life has ever wanted…
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more human than human
When you get into recovery, there’s not much room for who you were. The people around you don’t like how you used to act (sometimes), the world tells you that you were evil, the rooms tell you not to engage in war stories, and your psyche tells you to never go back there again. People…
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archetypes & anguish
Archetypes start appearing in therapy for me, likely due to my partial immersion in reading and writing through an English degree. The narcissist, the crying woman, the immigrant, the joker—these archetypes, ancient and ever-present in our subconscious, haunt my sessions. Binary thinking, which seeps from the leaky faucet of my family’s culture, brews a tempest…
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shadows we share
My therapist once mentioned that the dynamics between my brother, sister, and me are more strained than those of any other sibling group she has encountered. It would check out, just given our circumstances that rifts would start young. My brother was born 8 years before me. My mom had him when she was seventeen…
the misfit west 