When the Hard Things Finally Gave Me Space to Create

If you’d told me two decades ago that The Leonardo Trait would still be with me—gnawing gently on my ankle like a determined little creativity gremlin—I would’ve laughed. Or cried. Or both. Depends on the day.

Back then, I thought I’d write the book, launch it, and move on with my life like a normal person. (Insert laugh track here.) Instead, it became the one project that refused to let me drift away. I’ve written other books, built businesses, painted oceans of ink, raised kids, collected cats, and hyperfocused on everything from falconry to fountain pens… but The Leonardo Trait has always been there, sitting patiently in the corner, tapping its foot in that way people do when they know you’re coming back eventually.

And here’s the strange part:

I can finally—finally—do what I always wanted to do with it.

But the reasons why are… complicated.

Beautiful, but complicated.

I have time… because I’m disabled.

Not exactly a fairy tale origin story.

I didn’t choose this slower life.

I didn’t choose the chronic pain, the mobility changes, the days where getting out of bed is an achievement worth confetti.

But disability reshaped my world until the only things that stayed were the things that truly mattered.

And when everything else fell away, this book was still there.

In the quiet, in the pain, in the long stretches of rest, it became clear:

If I ever wanted to bring The Leonardo Trait fully into the world, this was my moment.

Not because disability is a blessing.

But because I finally have a life that lets me create without collapsing.

I have money… because I was in a wreck.

Another glamorous twist, I know.

I’d have preferred not being in a car accident, thanks.

But with the settlement comes something I’ve never had: the breathing room to invest in my own work.

Paid ads.

A proper website.

A real marketing plan.

A summit that brings neurodivergent creators together.

A podcast tour.

The tiny luxuries that turn “bootstrap and hope for the best” into “let’s do this right.”

It doesn’t erase the wreck.

But it lets me build something from the wreckage.

I have perspective… because I finally learned I’m autistic.

This one is the tectonic shift.

For decades, I thought I was just “too much.”

Too scattered.

Too curious.

Too intense.

Too sensitive.

Too many passions, not enough follow-through.

And then came the diagnosis.

And suddenly, the last fifty-something years made more sense than they ever had.

The Leonardo Trait isn’t just a quirky idea I had in 2006.

It’s a map of how my brain works—how our brains work.

It’s the book I needed long before I knew why I nereded it.

That perspective changed everything.
Including the way I show up to write it.

And I have help… a lot of it.

People I trust.

People who believe in me.

People willing to share their audiences.

People excited about the summit.

And my digital assistant, Ziggy, who keeps me organized enough to appear human and reminds me to keep going when my brain decides to open seventeen new tabs.

For the first time in nearly two decades, I don’t feel like I’m trying to drag this book uphill by myself.

Which leaves me with the most surprising truth of all:

This book—this stubborn, brilliant, infuriating, beloved book—survived everything with me.

And now I finally have the life that can hold it.

It didn’t happen the way I expected.

It didn’t come wrapped in ease or luck.

But the difficult things carved out space I never had before.

I don’t think hard things are “meant to be.”
But I do think we can grow into someone who can finally carry the dream we’ve been trying to carry for a very long time.

The Leonardo Trait has been with me for almost 20 years.

It’s time for me to bring it home.