Finding My Place in 2026

Evenings have a way of telling the truth.

The house gets quiet.

The noise fades.

And what’s left is the part of me that doesn’t need to perform.

2026 feels like a threshold year.

Not loud. Not flashy.

But steady—like a lantern set down on a familiar path.

My books are finding their readers now.

Not everyone.

Not all at once.

But the right ones.

The ones who pause on certain sentences.

The ones who feel something stir when the woods get quiet in my stories.

The ones who understand that Appalachia isn’t just a place—it’s a memory, a bruise, a blessing.

I’m learning my voice.

Not the voice I thought I should have.

Not the one polished to please.

But the one that sounds like me when no one is watching.

It’s taken years to get here.

Years of doubt.

Years of half-finished pages.

Years of whispers scribbled into notebooks and tucked away like secrets I wasn’t sure I was allowed to keep.

But whispers are patient.

They wait until you’re ready to listen.

Tonight, I am.

I’m listening to the stories that never stopped knocking.

To the characters who refused to leave.

To the parts of myself I once thought were too strange, too quiet, too dark, too much.

Turns out—that’s where the magic lives.

So here I am, in 2026.

Not lost.

Not finished.

But finally standing where my feet feel right.

And that feels like home.

— Tibbi Ann Hardix 🖤📚