Category: Sundress Reads

Sundress Reads: Review of Different With Him

Diving into the rawness of modern trans adolescence, mk zariel’s chapbook Different With Him (Rockwood Press, 2026) follows a transmasculine anarchist youth embracing their identity while wrestling with social narratives and heartbreak. A desire to become and find acceptance through late-night chats and texts are layered within zariel’s informal, magnetic prose.

zariel sets the contemporary tone with their opening poem “buzzfeed quizzes for the desperate.” Readers are given the image of a person so socially isolated and fearful of their surroundings that their recourse is engaging with opinions of random strangers on the internet. We’re given clues that the sardonic speaker of this poem is aware that the one accessing the quizzes is running away from facing their darkness and pain, hoping to find an “easy” technological fix like many youths of our time. Vapid opinions mock the person by dancing around their actual wants. zariel writes:

“pick three people to cast off &
we’ll tell you what the hell your problem is—
—make a mixtape of muffled screams
to find out the ache of your aura…
—spend a weekend in your ideal life & we’ll tell you
how your real one grew wings & traipsed away
in the rain with your lost friends“ (9).

The poems that follow layer this with a determined main speaker, someone who would have accessed those types of quizzes during their hesitations to be themselves. “voices” is a literal title: the speaker takes in willful ignorance from relatives, spectators, and their therapist. Their internalized transphobia is characterized as a contradictory angel in their mind, with their truest, suppressed desires acting as the shy, dissenting devil. The speaker eventually empowers themselves by taking concrete action: throwing away their dresses. They accept that words can be weapons, yet they “melt them down and make them shining armor for [their] new bodymind” (11). A powerful reclamation that illuminates through a massive fog of words on the page; it’s wonderful how precise the imagery of a transmasculine identity becomes in my mind.

Yet the irony of the speaker’s alleged confidence is that they spend a great deal of the chapbook mourning their sense of belonging and ultimate loss of a relationship with a cisgender boy. Their bond begins as an intellectual friendship and loyalty to the other, finding common ground through their anarchist beliefs and discussions about dead theorists. Like many adolescents struggling to find acceptance, the speaker is a lonely one. They idolize the boy, and project onto the boy who they wish he was rather than seeing him as he is. zariel writes:

“…i chose you because it was
the summer of ‘23 at the time, & nothing seemed weird compared
to the ANews comments, which means you’re
normal & i’m loved
i look awkward in the mosh pit, that night you
just stay in & read” (14).

Because the boy didn’t openly mock the speaker and their beliefs, and asked constantly if he had offended them or not with his remarks, the speaker believes that the boy is being considerate of their transmasculinity and that they are the same. They try to convince themself of their truth by recommending an anarchist zine to the boy. When that same zine leads to an abrupt end to their relationship, with the boy ghosting them and staging events without them, the speaker spirals into confusion and despair over the two years they had together.

Healing from the sudden loss is messy. In “retrospective,” they grieve by dressing in clothes they believe the boy will like, hoping that the boy will someday come back. They “catalog every memory they have of him, one of which actually happened, but all the others sound much more real” (17). In their loneliness, the speaker, “the lost (girl)boy” teaches AI to text like the missing boy, “break[ing] open” (18) when the impersonator begins to sound too much like him. It’s an unfortunately familiar tale of heartache when someone doesn’t live up to our expectations. I teared up while reading this honest piece of loss.

Anger trails in the wake, as often comes with mourning, and with it comes clarity no longer clouded by luminescence. The speaker begins to see the warts of the boy who left them hanging as he continues to carry on the wisps of familiarity. He wishes to know where they are, even though the speaker gave the luddite their location. What once seemed generous acts from the boy now feels fake and misplaced, the speaker justifiably exasperated by the audacity.
zariel writes:

“& i was your beloved once,
but now i am your IT department
or your mortal enemy
i haven’t decided” (20).

What I found compelling about the ending poem is that the speaker continues to mourn the boy, venting to their therapist about their hurt over his 1AM text to them. However, they are clearer on who they want to become: a person who desires love “without being wrapped in the silver film of personhood—… craves tender declamations over shouts” (22). It removes pretentiousness, validates the pain felt in loss, and brings back into focus their queer acceptance, one that the speaker now knows remains outside of the boy’s nervousness around them. It’s that self acceptance that brings joy to my heart.

Different With Him is a brief and mighty twenty-four pages. I hope zariel’s poems are savored and give trans youth hope to never settle for less.

Different With Him is available through Rockwood Press

Heather Takenaga is a poet and writer born and raised in Riverside, CA. She is currently writing short stories and poetry. When she is not volunteering, she is drooling for cat cuddles, moonlit walks, and a reading vacation.




Sundress Reads: Review of Destroy Me, Desecrate My Bones

A line-art sheep wearing spectacles reads a book while drinking a mug holding a hot beverage next to the Sundress Reads Logo

Victoria Hood’s Destroy Me, Desecrate My Bones (Girl Noise Press, 2026) is a hybrid collection that shows how a build-up of unsettled yearning can break a person down. In a mix of grotesque, obsessive, and confessional voices, Hood’s writing pulls you deeper into the spiraling decay of being in love. Split into six sections, Destroy Me, Desecrate My Bones begins with trying to cling to love before the subsequent sections turn to consuming, reshaping, and surrendering to the damage. I focus on the first two sections, “To Contain” and “To Devour,” to track the transition from clinging to consuming.

What strikes me about the prose piece “I’m Sorry We’re Getting Married” in “To Contain” is that it is entirely about her, even if it obsessively focuses on their connection. We never hear Harry’s voice, yet by the end she seems to feel her questions have been answered, and she closes with “see you at the wedding in July.” I keep wondering how much time sits between her writing this and seeing him, and whether he ever hears any of it. The piece fixates on “I love you, Harry,” and nearly every time she says it, an insecurity or another thought about why it wouldn’t work follows. Reading it, I found myself asking: if you have to repeat it this many times, do you truly love him, or are you trying to prove to other people the marriage is right for the two of you? Each declaration reads to me like a battle over which matters more: the lover she holds close, or the people watching. Even so, the close, “I think I’ve answered my question,” feels like she’s trying to force an ending rather than letting it happen naturally.

“I want to feel you drip down me” in “To Devour” mixes intimacy and eroticism in the most grotesque way you can imagine. But then it turns from “I want” to “I don’t want,” and the tone shifts from erotic to haunting: the speaker wants to “clean off the world” from their partner “before you enter the house,” insists, “I don’t want you to die,” then wipes them down and licks them clean “before the sacrifice can begin.” It tips from kinky to ritualistic quickly, and the “sweet and sticky” substance in the beginning is called honey but reads as bodily, especially with “before your insides can come out.” Both readings, a kinky couple and a cannibalistic one, end up being about the same thing: being known by someone so completely that you consume them and hear thoughts you can’t normally. The impossibility of getting inside someone’s head is turned literal through the possessive care of stripping off shoes, clothes, and germs to keep their lover safe, but also isolating them from the rest of the world.

The prose in “How are you?” in “To Devour” is where the collection shifts; there is a stark volley between “The Girl” and “The Best Friend.” They think about the other often and reminisce about each other, yet neither says anything. It is the most poignant compared to the previous poems in the collection because it’s so relatable to friends drifting apart when both are going through difficult things at the same time. The line that resonates with this the most is when you hear The Girl’s interiority: “It is hard to do well when you are nervous that your wellness is not as important as someone else’s.” When one friend is doing better, and the other one is struggling, there are social scripts with clear roles to fall into. But when both care deeply despite their separate struggles, they can’t tell who fits which role, and the confusion can create more distance, as it does here. Even at this distance, the grotesque hasn’t left. “Neither of them wants to climb inside each other, they are both scared to bring up the insides” mirrors earlier poems that try to consume the person the speaker cares about. Here, the same imagery becomes emotional intimacy they can’t risk, so the merging of their bodies appears as a fear of being that close.

Reading Hood’s collection, I came away feeling that the search for love and connection never actually ends. It keeps pushing deeper until it can’t be contained, and the book’s sections follow that path from “To Contain” to “To Spill Over.” Her narratives are messy and grotesque, and refuse to be cleaned up neatly. Intimacy arises, fails, and sometimes succeeds, and the book treats all of it as love that needs to be honored because it is difficult and uncomfortable to face. Often the love isn’t even heard by the other person, and the poems suggest that being heard may not be the most important part of feeling connected. Even though Hood writes love as something that cannot be held in, I felt held by her work. It captures the weird, sad girls who cry over everything and never had a place to put those feelings. Now we can set them down in her collection.

Order your copy from Girl Noise Press today!

Emma Flores is an undergraduate student at Binghamton University studying English. They have a particular interest in researching human behavior and society through storytelling, with a focus on cultural narratives and folklore. In their free time, Emma can be found doing tarot readings, wandering bookstores, or hunting down spiritual shops for the next deck to add to their growing collection.

Sundress Reads: Review of my mother is a mixed metaphor

A line-art sheep wearing spectacles reads a book while drinking a mug holding a hot beverage next to the Sundress Reads Logo

During a time when there is a distressing rise in conservative misogyny, Shivani Gupta’s debut chapbook my mother is a mixed metaphor (Rockwood Press, 2026) stands as a beautiful tribute to philogyny and motherhood. Through intimate metaphors and mindful details, Gupta scribes a narrative of a daughter growing into independence and her unabashed admiration for the woman who has loved her first: her mother.

The speaker clarifies that she is a daughter of an Indian family, following patriarchal traits with the expectations of a mother serving as a provider of comfort, a forgiving caregiver, and the rock for the family’s children. Another common characteristic of Indian motherhood throughout the chapbook is sharing food as a love language, one of my favorite examples expressed as “my mother’s love shows on my waist—climbs into / my rib cage, forms a protective layer around what i / tell her is my infallible heart.” (27)

In the chapbook’s titular poem, “mother as mixed metaphor,” these concepts are exquisitely depicted within the first four lines:

“my mother is a recliner with a massager,
heating & abundant side-pockets for snacks

overstuffed peanut butter & jelly sandwich
edges cut, well rounded, palatable to all ages” (7)

While the speaker often addresses her mother specifically, Gupta omits using “my mother” in her poems’ titles, acknowledging that there are certain histories which are inherited from generations before her.

In an Indian family, it’s not uncommon for mothers to watch as fathers “stand atop / spiraled staircases, ready for tripping / fortune waits for them / to give up before they arrive” (19). While the speaker’s own father “came back around / a chronic kind of sadness / his new normal” (25), it occurred after a childhood where “guilt breathed / into college son didn’t choose,” and “daughter… forever wears shirts oversized / comfort never fit right” (20).

By contrast, a mother’s thoughtfulness and compassion are dressed as quiet strengths comparable to forces of nature (“…almond eyes, wide, twisted and stormy,” “she is the life they mean when they say larger than life” (7)). How a mother “is juicy warm skies / torched at witching hour / gives light to another’s home.” (34) And then Gupta playfully zooms in to everyday treasures, where the speaker recalls her mother’s patience, how she “dialed the wrong number / often, but you were always listening” (26), or notes her mother’s tendency to hoard a mix-match collage, from ketchup packets, teatime biscuits, to birthday cards signed by the family. The speaker refers to herself as a “mirror” (16) of her mother, admiring and adoring their shared resilience, quirks, and origins.

Yet while she celebrates her mother and respects motherhood, noting that she is close to the age her mother gave birth to her—“freshly 30… with her almost 60” (28)—the speaker asserts that child-raising isn’t for her. Plainly, without metaphor, she states, “i will never hold something in me / that is younger, no version of us / to pass down” (10) and that “maternal instincts aren’t genetic” (13).

Despite her mother’s gentle pushing to give birth to grandchildren after the speaker’s marriage, the daughter remains firm in her decision to be childless. She is a tree “still branched / propelled into the future / with nieces and nephews,” (15), loving them and her choice as another legacy of hope for the women in their family, one she knows her mother—the one who always ate last at the dinner table—did not have a chance to experience in full. Respectfully, the speaker recognizes:

“i want to trust in my mother’s love
cocoon a closure, her lack of want
wrapped into a morning & a bite
of sun-blessed yolk—spilling, spilling, stop. (18)”

An adult daughter accepting her mother’s ways as “not stars, / but we are star adjacent,” (33) is a precious time of maturity that not all people can experience. Instead of causing conflict between them, the lack of personal want her mother has worries the daughter, who advocates for her mother to keep growing as a person without obligations to family, believing her mother will someday “shed mother layers / where the sea returns to ocean— / she will be born / again” (34).

I was deeply moved by the deceptive simplicity of the final poem, “mother as twenty questions,” a combination of sincere curiosity and existential inquiries. Zooming in and out of scope, the daughter encourages her mother to consider who she was before she had children, who she wishes to become, what she hopes to see. It’s a sweet window of perspective for her mother to consider, leaving the chapbook’s ending as part of an open-ended, ongoing conversation between them. I’m wondering how many selfless caregivers in this world may have needed to hear or ask themselves those same questions as well.

my mother is a mixed metaphor is Gupta’s delightful exploration into what women can be in life. I am grateful to read a chapbook where growing up isn’t always about the traumas or tragedies experienced; it can also be a jubilation of women’s choices and our forebearers, especially our mothers. Though I don’t share the same personal opinions regarding maternal instincts, I felt lighter as I read this wonderful ode to cisgender women. Whether they break the traditional family mold or not, women are capable of anything in Gupta’s poems.

my mother is a mixed metaphor is available from Rockwood Press

Heather Takenaga is a poet and writer born and raised in Riverside, CA. She is currently writing short stories and poetry. When she is not volunteering, she is drooling for cat cuddles, moonlit walks, and a reading vacation.

Sundress Reads: Review of Sailing Paper Boats & Other Stories

Sundress Reads header in black and white. A sheep wearing glasses is sitting on a stool on the left-hand side. It holds a hot cup of a drink in the left hand and a book in the right.
A cover of a book, showing a photo of a bright red paper boat sailing in blackish floodwaters in the center, with pelting rain and blue lightning strikes coming from the gray sky above. In the background are blurry outlines of green trees. overlaid yellow circles near the top. The title, "Sailing Paper Boats & Other Stories," is written in white on the lower half of the cover. The author's name, Swetha Amit, is written beneath.

Swetha Amit’s short story collection, Sailing Paper Boats & Other Stories (Alien Buddha Press, 2025), is an earnest, poignant collage of stories that explore both the fragility and resilience of human relationships and the natural world in the wake of disaster. Over the course of nine short stories, Amit beautifully captures the fear, loss, longing, and cautious hope one navigates as their notions of home, family, and belonging begin to transform.

Amit grounds readers in the environment of each story through her unvarnished, simple prose and deeply honest tone. Like reading through an old personal diary that you stumbled upon at the thrift store, or a sociologist’s field notes chronicling the lives of the humans they observe, Amit presents the characters as everyday people with their own memories, perspectives, and responses to the changes unfolding around them.

Using a first-person stream-of-consciousness narration, she lays bare the unpleasant and, sometimes, precarious realities of life that happen without warning. She explores issues such as climate-induced displacement, the material and emotional toll of natural disasters on local communities, and the illness and loss of loved ones.

This is brilliantly portrayed in the one-paragraph story, “The Nest”, where the speaker contends with the trauma of losing their house in a forest fire. When the speaker comes across a quail’s nest teeming with new life, they recall: “As the sky turns orange, I feel a pulsating rush of fear in my veins. I look at the tiny home of twigs in front of me. It reminds me of my old home wiped out by the fumes of orange and hues of smoke” (35). For the speaker, even the orange setting sun triggers their memories of the fire and of a home that no longer exists. The shocking abruptness of the flashback, heightened by the contrast between a fragile bird’s nest and a home burned to ashes, illustrates how severely the speaker has been affected by the catastrophe. Amit’s intimate portrayal invites readers to engage with these experiences.

Weather and natural disasters are a constant motif throughout the collection. As I read, I was fascinated by how the climate-related imagery in the stories seemed to reflect the internal landscapes of the characters as they face upheavals in their lives and relationships. See how, in “The Floor Beneath My Feet”, the speaker and her husband grapple with marital tension and infidelity between them when an earthquake hits their home: “The wooden floor beneath us is threatening to crumble at any moment… Our wedding photo, taken four years ago, lies on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass” (16).

Similarly, in “The Wrecked Wharf”, the storm surge crashing through the Capitola Beach wharf mirrors the speaker’s mental state after the sudden passing of his fiancée: “A few days later, a wall of water split the wharf in two….Around that time, you received news about your stage four lung cancer diagnosis. The devastating news shattered my heart and mind” (40). By drawing parallels between the destructive force of natural disasters and the characters’ mental states, Amit emphasizes the emotional weight of coping with relationships that have been permanently altered, allowing the reader to better understand the uncertainty, inner displacement, and other complex feelings that arise during the mourning process. This helps immerse the reader in the narrative, making its most heart-wrenching moments linger beyond the page.

At its core, however, Sailing Paper Boats is a short story collection centered around the theme of resilience. This is most clearly seen in “Sailing Paper Boats”, where the child protagonist, Krishna, and his family are suddenly uprooted from their seaside village due to flooding. As the rising waters submerge his home, instead of falling into despair, he turns to his faith, reminding himself that “Ma always emphasized how true faith in the almighty keeps us afloat” (13). In several stories across the collection, Amit explores how faith and spirituality are powerful resources for overcoming obstacles. Prayer becomes a way for Krishna to maintain his agency and hope, even when confronted with situations beyond his control. Later on, when Krishna’s village is forced to evacuate, he notices that the flimsy paper boat he made is still holding its ground against the flood:

“I took a deep breath. Maybe we’d soon see Pa…. He might find a better job…. The government may give us better homes. Ma and Pa may stop their quarrels. Like the boat, we could also sail smoothly on these rough waters. The storm will eventually subside with time, and sunny days will smile upon us again…” (15)

To Krishna, the miraculously intact paper boat is a symbol of survival. Through these comforting lines and visual imagery of the warm, gentle sun returning in the end, Amit reminds us how we, too, have the strength to recover from catastrophes and drastic life changes.

In Sailing Paper Boats & Other Stories, Amit skillfully turns personal memories of natural disasters into narratives that connect with all readers. I could understand the characters’ unspoken fears and frustrations and see myself in the struggles they encountered, from avoidant arguments with parents, like in “Sands of Time”, to the longing for a time before, when a loved one was still alive, or when life felt more stable, when you were stronger. But much like how nature is resilient, humans are incredibly resilient as well. Reading this collection taught me a valuable lesson: “Paper boats may be fragile, but they sail on”.

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

Tara Rahman (she/her) is a Sundress editorial intern with a BA in English Language and Literature from Smith College and an MSc in Global Development from SOAS, University of London. She is also a recent graduate of the Columbia Publishing Course in Oxford, UK. With a strong interest in culture, identity, and global history, her personal writing often focuses on intersectionality and the untold stories and experiences of marginalized communities.

Sundress Reads: Review of Toothache in the Bone

Sundress Reads
A cover of a book, showing a hand-drawn illustration of the left half of a hip bone in the center. The background is beige like parchment paper, and the skeleton is drawn with pencil shading. There is a rectangular border around the hip bone drawing. The title, "Toothache in the Bone," is written in red in the bottom-right corner. The author's name, Colleen S. Harris, is written beneath.

Toothache in the Bone (boats against the current, 2025) by Colleen S. Harris is a raw exploration of death, grief, trauma, and resilience. This poetry collection examines the body and its limitations under strain: diagnoses of bone damage and infertility; the death of loved ones; a marriage; and constant hospital visits and struggles with body image. Harris’s poems reflect on the human condition and the complexities of life with chronic illness, revealing physical and emotional scars with vulnerability that leaves an ache in the soul.

Throughout the collection, medical imagery is a recurring motif. Harris uses these vivid depictions to convey the physical experience of illness and show how it affects everyday life and one’s sense of self. Each poem is infused with visual references to needle jabs, broken bones, and allusions to medical terminology, such as macrophages and CRP (C-reactive protein) test numbers. These depictions of physical suffering linger with the reader, showing the deep influence of chronic illness on the speaker’s perception of everyday life.

In “Primum Non Nocere (First, Do No Harm)”, Harris writes: “First you must be patient, a patient / patient, who understands three months / of waiting for the chance to supplicate / to the physician could be worse… // When the day / comes, remember not to use the upper numbers of the pain scale, no nurse / believes anything above an eight” (23). These lines illustrate the speaker’s frustration with a healthcare system that does not adequately serve its patients. The endless cycle of waiting for appointments, enduring blood tests, and interacting with doctors who dismiss her symptoms renders the speaker drained. Her lack of agency in her medical treatment and constant pain creates a sense of helplessness towards her body: “Pain is a marriage, / a commitment, ‘til death do us part” (33). The speaker ultimately accepts that this senseless suffering will always be part of her life. Through this candid depiction of the intense psychological toll of illness, Harris guides us to understand the feeling of being trapped in a body that constantly betrays you. 

A central theme of Toothache in the Bone is coping with loss, grief, and the myriad complex emotions they evoke. Harris engages with loss in its many forms: the loss of health, the loss of reproductive possibility, and the loss of people. In “Rituals of Grief,” Harris grapples with reproductive loss through parallels with the mourning behaviors of elephants and crows. She writes, “Animals know the importance / of company, how a critical mass / of community can sustain grief // at a bearable level” (26). Later, she recounts the experience of losing a pregnancy, writing: “No animal, alone, I am buried / within these walls… // no crowd to wing with me, to step / in solidarity toward your body… // to prove that… I remain beyond your remains (27).

In contrast to the sense of community and shared grief found within elephant and crow groups, Harris highlights the alienation and loneliness that surround sudden loss among humans, particularly the experience of miscarriage. The societal stigma around miscarriage often forces women to grieve their miscarriage privately, internalizing their loss as a personal failure: What is wrong with my body? Why isn’t it working as it should? Without any community support to help her carry the weight of this pain, the speaker falls into a deep depression. Speaking openly about this issue is crucial to normalizing discussion around miscarriage and building community among women and individuals facing similar challenges. 

The thing I find most compelling about this collection is its unapologetic discussion of death and the nuances of the grieving process. Harris artfully describes the range of emotions that arise when navigating loss. In “On Letting Go of the Dying,” the speaker mourns both the death of her dog and her dying marriage. On witnessing the last moments of a beloved pet, Harris writes: “My mother / made me see his ribs pushing their way rudely through / his skin / I was not brave / when I carried him for the last / time… // Five / years passed before I could reach into the too small box to spoon // his ashes into a pendant…” (23). Through the use of visceral imagery, Harris illustrates the speaker’s confrontation with death, its brutality on the body, and its permanence. Death is often perceived as a biological, inevitable reality of life. Harris voices the fear and heartbreak of witnessing a loved one’s final days. It is a type of sorrow that never truly leaves you.

The latter half of the poem shifts in tone as Harris redirects the reader’s attention to the unhappy marriage. Harris describes it as a “skeletal, / gasping thing,” writing, “I needed // no memento, did not want to drown in the ashes. I wore my / good red dancing shoes instead” (24). Like shedding layers of old skin, the speaker is relieved to cast off her dying marriage and start life anew. Harris uses this juxtaposition to emphasize that accepting loss is not always negative; at times, it is a necessary process for growth and survival.

I have never read a poetry collection as devastating as Toothache in the Bone. I found myself moved by its honest discussions of illness, death, and body image, particularly in “Primum Non Nocere,” “Nel Mezzo Del Cammin di Nostra Vita,” and “I Dreamt I Was Unblemished.” Harris’s unflinching account of coming to terms with illness and loss reverberated deep in my bones, staying with me long after I finished reading. Her ability to articulate difficult human emotions, such as self-hate and sorrow, allows the collection to resonate with readers both with and without chronic conditions. In this collection, Colleen S. Harris masterfully gives voice to the hidden pain that our bodies hold.

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

Tara Rahman (she/her) is a Sundress editorial intern with a BA in English Language and Literature from Smith College and an MSc in Global Development from SOAS, University of London. She is also a recent graduate of the Columbia Publishing Course in Oxford, UK. With a strong interest in culture, identity, and global history, her personal writing often focuses on intersectionality and the untold stories and experiences of marginalized communities.

Sundress Reads: Review of ‘Flood’ by Rachel Bulman

In Flood (Sunlight Press 2025), Christine Kalafus writes with power. The myriad themes and stories she interweaves are beautiful, but more importantly, they serve a greater purpose: a woman writing with intention.

Dealing with her lived experience as source material, Kalafus layers snippets of her life in a vast collage of motherhood, chemotherapy, mental health, and what it means to be a woman.

Wielding fluid, gentle prose and a calm, matter-of-fact tone that occasionally dips into self-deprecating, Kalafus draws the reader into a conversation which, to me, felt like reconnecting with an older sister years after losing touch. She recollects her past with authority and insight, but lays bare the doubt, the pain and the ultimate growth that brought her through the ‘flood’, a metaphor used throughout the book to illustrate drowning, both in a literal and emotional sense. It is a highly reflective, carefully arranged memoir, unfolding the cost of pushing your body and mind to their limits.

I am reluctant to reveal too much of the content, but Kalafus’ situation is a tragedy that hardly bears imagining––lurking cancer, three children: one only four years old, two yet unborn.

As Kalafus so plainly puts it: “You can’t outrun a flood” (110).

Indeed, water pervades every aspect of the book. Humidity in the house, ruining the piano; the fresh spring at neighbours’; the leaking cracks in the basement; every literal breakage offers a mirror to Kalafus’ internal landscape.

Prevalent throughout the story as a stronghold against storms, the house earns its place at the centre of LJ Mucci’s cover design. When introduced, it feels alive, offering sanctuary, becoming a manifestation of feeling outcast or odd. It brings joy to Kalafus, “as if the house’s blueprint had been daylight” (21).

But this creation solidified my fears as Kalafus steadily accelerates the looming threat of a flood. Not just of emotion, but a physical, biblical flood that may leave behind nothing but wreckage. And all emphasised by the unearthing feeling of being told something you thought was certain is not: my husband loves me, my house cannot flood, I do not have cancer. Flood is what happens when solid ground becomes malleable, and stability falls away.

Over the course of the memoir, Kalafus delves into her life before diagnosis. She recalls growing up in Connecticut and northern Virginia, discusses the internalized threats women face and observes society persistently teaching women how to dress to avoid danger, and so the real threats go unnoticed––invasion “from the inside” (3). Amid powerful childhood memories, Kalafus recalls being objectified, sexualised, and fearful, shared with the casual understanding that this is what ‘normal’ looks like for most women. As I read, I found myself struck by an outsider’s perspective: the tragedy of growing up as a woman and never learning how proud you should be.

Kalafus’ musings on womanhood permeate the whole text: “In my family, a woman’s denial of herself equalled survival” (23), “I apologise for the mother they won in the lottery” (114), “I ignore him because that’s how I’ve been socially trained to manage a raging asshole” (121). To my surprise, I felt known by this book, and I felt rage on behalf of Kalafus, and every woman whose opinion was superseded by a man who thought he knew best.

With razor-sharp precision, Flood elaborates on female guilt, the pernicious companion to feminine rage: harder to eradicate and all too easy to indulge. Even after all she has survived, Kalafus struggles not to blame herself (163).

This was a topic made all the more raw by the realities of medical treatment. A combination of the occasional colossal ineptitude of medical professionals and the consistent devaluation of women’s opinions, Flood suggests that negligence can become a form of cruelty without intent. Kalafus makes a devastating case against the apathy of doctors and the American healthcare system at large.

I took away from this book a lesson in setting limits––a hard-won battle for Kalafus––an example of expressed agency, a deeper understanding of its worth, and a steadfast belief that your opinions about your body have value.

Kalafus delicately puts something that should be taught to every woman from childhood: you do not have to keep the whole world in balance, as much as you are told to. It is an impossible task; Atlas holding up the sky; Sisyphus’s boulder: “As a modern woman, I’m supposed to do everything at one time. Glass ceiling smacker, mother martyr, sex goddess, selfless sisterdaughterfriend” (156). All roles that led to such acute stress that they were considered the only suggested cause of her diagnosis.

Merging the poetic intent of Mary Oliver with the clarity of Margaret Atwood, Kalafus’s writing is ruthless with details and surgically precise. From the smooth and elegant inclusion of a second-person perspective to the balanced and intriguing variations in page layout, including lists and quotes, Kalafus offers an arrangement finely tuned for brutal contextual impact.

Flood layers its tragic elements so delicately that I felt the water rising around me––despite the stress of two newborns, rising water tables, and chemotherapy, I had been mercifully spared worrying about the details of medical bills and insurance repayments until Kalafus chose to open that floodgate as well.

Just as Kalafus quotes her mother’s wisdom, I will repeat it here: “It is possible to be completely terrified of something and do it anyway” (198) to show that you can survive the flood and smile again on the other side.

Order your copy of Flood today!

The side profile of a pale-skinned woman wearing glasses and a grey baseball cap as she looks off to her right side. In the background is a scenic body of water, greenery on the horizon line, and a clear blue sky.

Rachel Bulman (she/her) holds a BA in English and Creative Writing as well as an MA in Publishing from the University of Exeter, specialising in interactive and children’s fiction. Her written work has appeared in The Book of Choices, Velvet Fields, and Exeposé, among others. Find her on Instagram @worm.can.read, through her online portfolio, or ask the bridge troll who taught him his riddles three.

Sundress Reads: Review of Souvenirs from Another Life

Sundress Reads

Leah Browning’s Souvenirs from Another Life (Quiet Ocean Studio & Press, 2026) is the first full-length short fiction collection from the author, but the latest in a long line of chapter books, non-fiction, and poetry. With over thirty publications having originally featured many of the stories, this collection is an amalgamation of multiple years of work and dedication to the craft. At its core, the collection is a series of vignettes featuring life at its truest: in relation to others. From first loves to last days, the shutter closes on glimpses of parents, children, friends, lovers, and strangers as they navigate what it means to live a life.

In form, Souvenirs from Another Life is diverse. Its diversity is most evident in its inclusion of everything from full-length literary fiction to microfiction. The variation in the length, content, and perspective of each story maintains an engaging pace. With every page turned, completely new expectations are set. In theme, it feels almost voyeuristic, looking on at these faceless characters as they navigate the most arduous or joyous days of their lives. They have plain names and minimal physical descriptions, lending to that anonymity. We absorb these moments in singularity, often completely unaware of their backstory. 

This book is the embodiment of the feeling when you are sitting at a cafe, sipping on your americano, when two best friends sit down at the table beside you. Just over the noise of the busy street, you overhear fragments of their conversation. One of them is breaking up with their boyfriend or dealing with a terrible landlord. You know you are eavesdropping, and you know you should not, but curiosity gets the better of you. That quiet thrill is what keeps you reading Souvenirs from Another Life.

In particular, the collection truly shines in its briefest stories. While the few plots that were linked were always fascinating, I found myself most struck by the ones that lasted a few mere paragraphs.

As I read on, I was particularly intrigued by the idea of absence. Without being able to sit with a character for very long, there is an intentional lack of intimacy between the reader and the narrator. You are being held at arm’s length by the form while Browning’s high stakes and distinct characterization pull you closer. But the less there is to know, the more room it gives for the reader to insert their own thoughts, beliefs, and interpretations. It invites an open dialogue, encouraging you to contend with the story and reflect on your own memories.

“If I had more time, I would have written you a shorter letter.” Often wrongly attributed, the quote can be traced to a philosopher, Blaise Pascal. During my undergraduate studies in Creative Writing, my professors often cited a similar idea. Series are easier to master than a standalone novel. A short story is painstaking. A poem is completely, utterly excruciating. A single sentence can torment you.

See, an excerpt from “WORLDS,” a story that, in length, was under a page:

“But in the middle of the night, she’d lent me a toothbrush, and I’d watched her floss her teeth” (Browning 95).

In under twenty words, Browning masterfully presents setting, character, and action. Newness, uncertainty, and awe permeate the world of the narrator. There is an air of domesticity working in contrast to unfamiliarity. It is almost tangible. The cool night air, the white tiles, the silence. But all of that is there without actually being said. It is that absence that allows you to make a world feel whole without a whole novel to bring it to life. The story is colored by your own memory of longing. It is an invitation to reflect.

The intent of the collection is epitomized in the title story of the collection, from the point of view of an unnamed character:

“The photographs I found all over the apartment were proof that these things had happened: my courtship, my wedding, the birth of my child” (Browning 142).

At its most literal level, the narrator examines souvenirs of a life that was once hers but no longer is. We feel her grief, her regret, and her remorse. Many of these emotions permeate these stories, prompting the audience to use an insular moment to imagine a life that they are not privy to. Perhaps it even evokes nostalgia for former versions of ourselves. Times when we were still in love with that girl, living with our college roommate, or simply a time in which we did not understand heartbreak in the way we do now. The stories in this collection are steeped in sentimentality for life, in all its beauty and all its discomfort. It is an act of remembrance about what it means to be human. 

The last line of the collection reads, “As she crossed the yard, Stacy had watched her, feeling the metal of the house key, warm against her skin” (Browning 220).

As we cross into the next chapter of our lives, may we always use Browning’s examination of memory as a reminder to look at our own souvenirs with grace and reverence for our past selves.

Souvenirs from Another Life is available from Quiet Ocean Studio & Press.

Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.

Sundress Reads: Review of Not Now Now

Sundress Reads

Sandra Doller’s Not Now Now (Rescue Press, 2025) is a powerful interrogation of motherhood, autonomy, and growing older in a country rooted in patriarchy and violence. By playing with the nonsensical, the incongruous, and the strange, Doller’s work interrogates the self and attempts an honest answer about our sobering reality. Although all the poems are untitled, the collection is divided into three sections: “Not,” “Now,” and “Now,” tracing a compelling arc on coming to terms with adulthood.

In the first section “Not,” often unpunctuated poems bleed into one another as Doller explores the frenzied contradictions of daily life. Her work is intentionally, unreservedly indulgent, focusing on the complications of authority and (in)dependence. In particular, the rhetorical weight of the “I” looms in each poem. In one instance, Doller’s speaker reflects, “he doesn’t use the word I / at all, just We and They / occasionally You but never / Himself never inserted as if / that’s a kind of absence / when in fact it’s the worst / kind of present tense / takeover as if he is not even / in his own likeness” (41). At the same time, Doller’s speaker turns to another unknown figure, “You and your dirty / I” (27). Through wielding both accusation and praise, Doller challenges the idea of a “tainted” or shameful self. No one is wholly innocent, naive, or even honest with themselves, but perhaps the so-called dirtiness as we grow older—the accumulated disappointments, sorrows, regrets—does not need to be harbored in secret shame.

It is also in “Not” that Doller lays the groundwork for a vision of a distorted quotidian, interrupting what the reader may assume to be “normal.” Suspending disbelief, Doller’s speaker describes instead: “When women speak with / their mouths full of soap…Their mouths wide / whale for the credit / card insert a flag here” (38). The credit card, blurred into a flag, with a presumed place inside a woman’s body, is a true mark of the American violence that Doller attempts to grapple with. More subtly, the poem’s speaker also points out, “Erasure of girl / is a tricky little / business I’ve been / at for a few / centuries now…Puffed / sleeves and push / ups everything is / elevated. Make it / higher and high / like bangs” (42). Through the poem’s progression, Doller creates a heightening anxiety and tension that reflects the truly century-long project of controlling bodies—gender, sexuality, sex. How is girlhood defined? And then policed? What kind of adulthood can emerge from and in conjunction with this?

In “Now,” the collection’s second section, Doller’s dense series of prose poems pulls the reader into its very center of tension. The images are equally distorted as before, but the distortion settles into clarity now, where a landscape of often white, middle-class, suburban American domesticity emerges. It is in this space that Doller shoots questions with more striking precision than ever. “Does your belief depend on me to open it,” the poem’s speaker asks, to “crack that nut like a slow-moving rat on the line, does it” (72). In cutting bluntness, Doller dares the reader to face most what they want to the least. What loss had to occur and continues to occur in order for your current life to take place? In another poem: “How many years did a woman live here before me,” and “once you move in there is no moving anymore” (53). Doller makes it clear that in her poems, we are not walking around in wonder or confusion anymore. We are asking questions; we are conversing; we are creating our own answers. Despite the sinister threat of inaction and stagnancy, a form of agency and pushing forward is still possible. “I am a moving crisis in Washington and the kids know it,” Doller’s speaker declares, “watch me watch you corrupt the process” (76).

Finally, in the last section, also titled “Now,” Doller closes the collection on a note that is neither melancholic nor optimistic, but uncompromising and sincere. In one of the poems, the speaker confesses, “I have / been afraid so / afraid before. / I am sore / for the men / inside their empty / puffy suits. I have / never coughed like / that or moved my neck / so little” (109). Through this tender and vulnerable admission, the speaker acknowledges their world for what it is and has been, but now the space opens up to change. Language must be intentional, broken apart, changed—which is why Doller writes, “We foil / ourselves like cartoon / bandits. America are you / listening, lingering, are you / so old you can’t just can’t anymore” (102). Instead of saying “are you so old you just can’t anymore,” the poem refuses the oft-used excuse of fatigue and tradition.

Not Now Now is a stunning collection that grapples with how precarious our existences are. Even in our conversations with each other, just one letter can determine the sentence’s meaning, “the way one letter from word ‘now’ to ‘not’ changes everything: your breakfast is now ready, your breakfast is not ready” (Doller 55). There is fragility and ambiguity to most problems, but the reader learns through these poems that they must confront these experiences head-on. As Doller writes, “Let the times you flinch be / the times you’re really in it” (39).

Order your copy of Not Now Now here.

Ruoyu Wang is a writer from Seattle. Their poems appear in Sine Theta Magazine, COUNTERCLOCK, and The Shore, and have been recognized by YoungArts, The Adroit Journal, and Narrative Magazine, among others. Currently, they serve as the Founding Director of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship and study Critical Race and Political Economy at Mount Holyoke College. They love linguistics, postcards, live music, and jasmine milk tea.

Sundress Reads: Review of Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing

Sundress Reads

Charles K. Carter’s Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales (Fernwood Press, 2026) is an explorative, alluring collection of flash fiction, vignettes, free verse, and more. Divided into four sections, the book transforms a vessel of ecopoetics into an examination of human relationships, sexuality, and mental health. Carter’s sophomore release paints pictures of stunning, overgrown, and lustrous landscapes while simultaneously tearing at the most heart-wrenching and isolating aspects of the modern experience. 

In Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales, the author’s interest in what they were writing about stood out immediately. Writing about animal and plant life so cleverly requires a fundamental understanding of the named specimens. Early on, it is clear that Carter has a true affinity for nature. Their fascination is tangible on the page, from visual allusions to orchids and willow trees to vibrant references to gnats and grasshoppers. Their enthusiasm for these ecological subjects made the collection all the more compelling, as I was eager to learn more about how they could transform this knowledge into poetry. 

See, from Part I, an excerpt from the poem entitled “Blooming”: 

“Many native prairie flowers grow close together / to help each other carry the weight of the world, / to help each other stand tall” (Carter, 22). 

It is true that prairie flowers tend to congregate. It is an evolutionary response to surviving in areas with high winds. To root their imagery in truth, the author needs to have a concrete understanding of the nature that they are referencing. Carter does. That attention to detail strengthens their writing and forms trust between the reader and the book.  

Throughout this collection, Carter uses facts like those about the various flowers in “Blooming” and intermingles them with potent metaphors. They utilize natural examples of destruction and perseverance to argue for the same possibilities in human life. It was imagery that I understood and was easily able to relate to. What I did not know, I researched. Then, I was able to apply that concrete visual allusion to the picture of my own friend group and the collective support I feel through their presence. In that, Carter’s writing, despite being very emotionally-driven, is simultaneously scientific.  

Often, these grounded metaphors lead to a feeling of observation. Many of the poems read like hypotheses, long mulled over after following and evaluating a creature in its natural habitat. 

“An ant, used to relying on her colony to survive, / will purposely leave her home if she is infected with a disease” (Carter, 38). 

Then, a stanza later… 

“One of my coworkers / Couldn’t even be bothered to wear a mask for ten minutes in Walgreens” (Carter, 38). 

Often, emotions like aggression and territoriality are attributed to having an “animal instinct.” Carter subverts this notion, challenging readers to think about the sense of community and altruism that exists in the animal kingdom. At the same time, the author is also turning a spotlight on the greed and self-interest that have created division between people in the last few years. Can selfish interests be chalked up to an animalistic instinct, or is it also true that community building and preservation are innate qualities?  

The thing that most often captivates me about Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales is the contrast. Within a short excerpt, not only can you feel the author’s admiration for the ant, but you can also feel their disdain for the actions of their fellow humans. By placing these two examples in opposition, especially considering Carter’s affection for nature, it becomes clear what their standpoint truly is. 

Yet, despite this frustration, much of the collection is still about humans and human moments, whether fictional or not. In particular, the flash fiction of this collection showcases truly human relationships, dialogue, and actions. They are moments shared over dinner, in old houses, or on a day out. They are between lovers, friends, or family. Whether comforting or unsettling, the conversation still revolves around human life. It is aggravating, humiliating, and captivating all at the same time. It is one more outlet for the author to confront trauma, heartbreak, and loneliness as humanity struggles to find its humanity.  

Finally, in Part IV of the collection, the human comes face-to-face with nature, entering a conversation where they reckon with their impact on the natural world. In Earth’s last moments, a human speaks to an eagle, whale, cockroach, and dog. The penultimate piece solidifies the ecological, anthropological, and political message of the collection. It is a call to action. 

From “The Last Night on Earth”: 

“What a lonely night it would be if they still pretended not to / hear one another” (Carter, 72). 

Now, the character of the human must finally contend with what the human author has been urging them to hear all along. And, as a reader, the most important thing this collection did was encourage me to listen. I hope others will, too. 

Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales is available from Fernwood Press

Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.

Sundress Reads: Review of My Arabic Breakfast

A cover of a book, showing the top half of a silver, circular, engraved platter with various Levantine foods such as mint tea, zaatar, and olives arranged in a circle. A plate of sunny-side-up eggs sit in the middle. The title, "My Arabic Breakfast," is written in Arabic and English letters against a bright yellow background. The author and illustrators' names, Yasmeen Fakhereddin and Noor Naqaweh is written beneath in white Arabic letters.

Written by Palestinian-Canadian educator, Yasmeen Fakhereddin, and illustrated by Syrian-Palestinian artist, Noor Naqaweh, My Arabic Breakfast (Zingo Ringo, 2024) is a bilingual board book that introduces young learners to Arabic. With vibrant illustrations of Levantine breakfast foods, and accompanied by English translations and pronunciation guides, this book helps children build their vocabulary, pattern recognition, and numeracy skills, all while spotlighting Palestinian culture.

Naqaweh’s hand-drawn illustrations make My Arabic Breakfast a visual feast for the eyes. From the first page, readers are welcomed to the dining table teeming with flavorful Levantine dishes. Each food item is drawn in mouthwatering detail—sesame seed-coated falafel, labneh cheese balls doused in olive oil, and mini filled flatbreads with steam wafting off them. The liveliness of the dining room and the warm, bright colors throughout the book remind readers of home, the feeling that they have a seat at the table. Another highlight of My Arabic Breakfast is phonetic Arabic spellings and English translations, which make bilingual learning easy. Many immigrant and interracial families hope that their children stay connected to their cultural heritage. Fakhereddin, as a Palestinian-Canadian and parent herself, understands this, and so aims to build children’s confidence in Arabic while introducing bits of Levantine culture in a way that remains accessible to children.

The first full-page spread inside My Arabic Breakfast. It shows a yellow dining room, three brown dining chairs, and a dining table with a variety of Levantine and Palestinian foods. The left-hand side contains a jar of jam, a plate of cucumber and tomato slices, a bowl of olives, a basket of pita bread, twin bowls of zaatar and olive oil, bowls of fava bean foul, and a platter of falafels. In the center are a plate of mini filled pitas on an Al-Khalili pottery plate, a pan of six sunny-side-up eggs, salt and pepper shakers, an assorted platter of cheese, and a bowl of labneh cheese submerged in olive oil. On the right side of the table is a red tea kettle with steam coming out of the spout, a sugar bowl and plate of mint leaves, five glasses of mint tea, a plate with donut-shaped date-filled cookies, a plate of watermelon slices, and a tissue box with a tatreez embroidered cover. On the wall hangs a painting of a green olive branch laden with black olives. The bottom of the page says "welcome" in English on the left side and "ah-lan wa sah-lan" in Arabic on the right.

What makes My Arabic Breakfast unique is that it is entirely Palestinian-made, from the author and illustrator to the publisher, Zingo Ringo Books. Throughout the book, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh highlight their Palestinian roots through small artistic details. The opening spread, for instance, depicts a platter of watermelon slices on the table and a painting of an olive branch, two enduring symbols that represent the cultural identity of Palestinians and the connection to their land. The plate with the mini flatbreads on page 4, and the bowls of zaatar and olive oil on page 7 feature Palestinian pottery designs from the Al Khalil region, while page 8 showcases a traditional Palestinian date-filled cookie. On the last page, where all the food has been eaten, there remains on the table a tissue box with tatreez (embroidery), a traditional Palestinian craft. The book ends with one final, subtle detail—a painting with the word sahteen (“bon appetit”) in Levantine Arabic. Food, the practices and habits around food, hold personal and cultural significance. It is a means for communities to retain their cultural identity. My Arabic Breakfast is not only a language-learning book, but also a love letter to Palestine: culture and people. Through the recurring motifs of Palestinian foods and traditions, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh convey a message of resilience and pride in their heritage. In this way, My Arabic Breakfast is a message to the children of Palestine and the Palestinian diaspora, encouraging future generations to remember and celebrate their identity.

My Arabic Breakfast stands out because it is a board book primarily geared towards bilingual children from the Arabic-speaking diaspora. The significance of Fakhereddin and Naqaweh’s book lies in the mirror it holds up for children of Palestinian and Levantine origin, reflecting their heritage, cultural practices, and everyday experiences, and affirming their sense of identity and belonging. A persistent issue in mainstream English-language children’s books is the misrepresentation and underrepresentation of people of color, Arabs in particular. Even in recent years, the number of children’s stories written by or about Arabs remains very limited. For this reason, My Arabic Breakfast is a meaningful contribution to children’s literature. They can practice recognizing and naming foods from home and learn basic numbers and words in both Arabic and English. At the same time, the visuals render the learning experience all the more engaging.

A spread of two pages inside My Arabic Breakfast. The left page has a purple background with illustrations of three falafels in the center. The left-hand side has the number 3 at the top and the word "falafel" at the bottom in English. The right-hand side has the corresponding Arabic numerals and words. The right page has The right side is a reddish-pink background with four bowls of fava bean foul in the center. The left-hand side has the number 4 at the top and the word "foul" in English, with the corresponding numeral and word in Arabic on the right side.

My Arabic Breakfast is also a delightful read for non-Arabic speakers, helping them develop cultural awareness and appreciation for diverse communities. The book paints an authentic picture of Levantine culture and cuisine, allowing for an immersive educational experience. Children can discover a wide variety of dishes—zaatar, shai bil nana (mint tea), and fava bean foul, among others—and also learn Arabic words and numerals. As I leafed through the book, I found myself captivated by the vivid artwork and the elegance of Arabic script. With each page, my fingers traced the words, following the English pronunciation closely. Even as an adult reader, My Arabic Breakfast offered me an introduction to the richness of Palestinian and Levantine culture. Reading this book reminded me of the food and cultural practices in my own family as a Bangladeshi-American Muslim, of the joy of visiting friends and sharing traditional foods, and of the deep sense of togetherness. Moreover, reading My Arabic Breakfast made me reflect on the importance of diverse and inclusive books for children. Growing up in a small town in the American South, I was always curious about my heritage and mother tongue. At school, opportunities to explore this curiosity were rare. Thus, the presence of books like My Arabic Breakfast in libraries and bookstores is essential. They encourage children to learn about and cherish their identities. Addressed to young learners, My Arabic Breakfast is all about celebrating and maintaining one’s roots.

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

Tara Rahman (she/her) is a Sundress editorial intern with a BA in English Language and Literature from Smith College and an MSc in Global Development from SOAS, University of London. She is also a recent graduate of the Columbia Publishing Course in Oxford, UK. With a strong interest in culture, identity, and global history, her personal writing often focuses on intersectionality and the untold stories and experiences of marginalized communities. In her free time, she enjoys reading literary and YA fiction, watching anime, and spending time with her tripod cat, Tuntuni.