Stories have always been one of the most powerful ways humans connect with each other.
Long before technology—before screens, notifications, and passwords we can’t quite remember—people gathered around fires to share stories. Those stories weren’t just entertainment. They were memory. Meaning. Survival.
They were spoken.
They were sung.
Epic heroes rose and fell through the rhythm of voice—stories carried across generations not by printing presses, but by people who remembered, who listened, and who told them again.
Stories were how we understood the world. And how we understood each other.
Even now, stories continue to shape how we see the world.
When we read a book, we step into someone else’s perspective. We see challenges, fears, and hopes through another character’s eyes. And somewhere in that process, something shifts.
That experience builds empathy—the ability to understand what someone else might be feeling.
And that matters more than ever.
Because we live in a time where communication is constant…
but connection can still feel surprisingly rare.
We text. We scroll. We react. We “like.”
But how often do we pause, look someone in the eye, and really listen?
I’m not suggesting we all give up our cell phones (I’ve grown quite attached to mine, and it knows all my passwords). But I do wonder if we’ve lost something small and important along the way.
Something human.
This past week, my nephew and his family drove all the way from Kansas City to Alabama for spring break.
And I kept thinking—how incredible is that?
They could have gone anywhere. A beach. The mountains. Somewhere with better weather and fewer pollen warnings.
But they chose to come here.
To sit at the table.
To talk.
To laugh.
To be together—in person.
No buffering. No lag. No “You’re frozen—wait, say that again.”
Just real conversation.
And it reminded me of something simple:
Connection doesn’t have to be complicated.
But it does have to be chosen.
For young readers especially, stories can be life-changing.
A student who struggles with confidence might see themselves in a character who learns to speak up.
A child facing challenges might find hope in a character who refuses to give up.
Stories give readers a safe place to explore hard things—and the quiet reassurance that they are not the only ones feeling what they feel.
That’s part of what inspired me while writing Small Brave Things.
I wanted to create a story where readers could see that healing, courage, and growth don’t happen all at once.
They happen little by little.
In small, brave moments.
Stories remind us that none of us are alone in our experiences.
Someone, somewhere, has faced something similar—and found a way forward.
And sometimes, that is exactly the encouragement we need.
Maybe that’s why stories have lasted as long as they have.
From fireside voices…
to printed pages…
to the screens we hold in our hands…
The format has changed.
But the need for connection hasn’t.
So maybe the question isn’t just why stories matter.
Maybe it’s this:
Are we still making space to share them?
To listen?
To connect—not just through words on a screen, but through presence?
Because stories don’t just live in books.
They live in conversations.
In shared moments.
In the simple act of sitting across from someone and saying, “I’m here. Tell me.”
Until Then…
Thank you for being here and following along on this adventure. Keep your heart open, your courage ready, and remember:
One small brave thing at a time.
