Come on in; I’m so pleased that you’re here.
My name is Esmé; I am a writer. I work to make the world a less lonely, and more passionate, place. My business and life ethos are built around the line, Tell your story. Be your dream.
…as it applies to my belief in Radical Sincerity, and my mission to spread the ideas behind it.
…as it applies to the Chronicles, where I tell my stories, and with permission, the stories of others, about mental health and illness, compassion and care, soulful business, and the writing life. When people ask me why I write, I tell them about the woman who wrote to say that she was contemplating suicide one night, spent the dark hours reading the Chronicles instead, and then decided that she was going to live. Some may call it a schizoaffective disorder blog, or a blog about coping with schizoaffective disorder, but I believe that it’s so much more than that — storytelling about surviving, and thriving, with serious and chronic illnesses is both a balm and a call to action for everyone to live their best life, no matter the circumstance.
…as it applies to my Editing & Copyediting Services, which are directed at visionary entrepreneurs — visionaries who, as I do, dream of changing the world, and want to tell their stories with powerful elegance and clarity.
…and finally, as it applies to my Rawness of Remembering: Restorative Journaling Through Difficult Times course — a six-week journey in which I bring you through the act of moving from coping to thriving.
WANT MORE? HERE’S THE LONGER VERSION. I’LL PUT THE KETTLE ON.
I was born in a small Michigan town to two Taiwanese immigrants before being shuttled off to California. My father drove ahead of my mother and me. In his broke-down car he forgot about the tea eggs that my mother prepared for him. She’d put them beneath his seat in a bag and they went
bad, smelled foul. While we waited to meet him there, my mother and I lived in a rented room and shared Whoppers every day. So now neither of us eat Whoppers.
Later I went to schools that some would call prestigious, but even though I met my husband at Yale, and have some fond memories of sneaking into lecture halls in the middle of the night to watch 1960s French films, those college years were also when I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, had immediately moved cross-country without a treatment plan, and had no idea how to take care of myself as a person with said disorder. Eventually I was hospitalized, to some degree or another, repeatedly until 2012, although I did manage to succeed in getting both a BA and an MFA.