Why I Write Romance

People often assume romance writers choose their genre.

That we study the market. Analyze trends. Decide what will sell.

But that isn’t what happened to me.

I didn’t choose romance.

Romance chose me.

And once it did, I understood why.

Because love—real love—is the only force powerful enough to heal what life breaks.

My childhood was not a happy one.

There was instability. Abuse. Absence. Emotional ground that never felt entirely secure beneath my feet.

So I did what many wounded children do.

I escaped.

Not physically. But through books.

Within their pages, I found worlds where people were brave. Where love was steady. Where someone always stayed.

Stories gave me something real life could not.

Safety.

Hope.

Proof that something better existed.

Even then, I wasn’t just reading for entertainment.

I was reading for survival.

Books didn’t just comfort me.

They taught me.

They showed me what strength looked like. What devotion looked like. What it meant to be chosen—and cherished.

They formed the blueprint for the stories I would one day write.

Even before I knew it myself.

I didn’t set out to become a romance authoress.

My first romance novel wasn’t written for publication. It was written for my best friend—simply to entertain her.

What began as five chapters grew into sixty-five.

Not because I planned it.

But because the story refused to stop.

That was when I realized something profound.

This wasn’t just creativity.

It was calling.

God had given me the ability to write. And He made it clear that if He could redeem broken lives, He could redeem broken callings, too.

Romance was not a distraction from that calling.

It was the expression of it.

Love is not weakness.

Love is strength.

It is endurance. Faithfulness. Sacrifice.

It is an action.

It is choosing someone—not once, but continually.

And I knew then that these were the stories I was meant to write.

Stories where love didn’t fail.

Even when everything else had.

The world has grown confused about love.

It has reduced it to impulse. To appetite. To something disposable.

But love was never meant to be disposable.

Love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love protects. Endures. Perseveres.

The Bible calls love the greatest of all things.

And that is the love my stories honor.

My heroines are not perfect.

They are wounded. Searching. Becoming.

My heroes are not fantasies.

They are protectors. Providers. Men of integrity and devotion.

They represent the kind of love that heals rather than harms.

The kind of love that stays.

I write romance because I know there are women who feel lost.

Women who have been hurt. Misled. Taught to accept less than they deserve.

My stories exist for them.

To remind them that they are worthy of devotion.

To give them heroines who reflect their strength.

To give them heroes they can believe in.

To offer hope that love—real love—still exists.

I don’t write romance to follow trends.

I write it because I believe in what it represents.

Love is not weakness.

It is redemption.

It is healing.

It is the force that restores what was broken.

I write these stories so that women who read them will feel seen.

Understood.

Safe.

So they’ll close the final page believing—not in fantasy—but in the possibility of love that honors, protects, and endures.

Because love created this world.

And love is what sustains it still.