Smoke & Stars: One Year Around the Fire

A good fire is never built all at once. There are layers that have to be put down before it can catch. It starts with the kindling, then the twigs and sticks can catch, and a flame will build from there, climbing up stacked logs. It’s only when the smoke starts to float up to the stars that the fire is really set. Then you can sit back in your chair with your marshmallows and roast the evening away.

That first hint of smoke in the air, the scent of it, it’s like coming home from a long day. Then, as the stars come out a bit earlier each evening, and the chill in the air settles in, we gather just a little closer to the fire, holding our hands up to the heat.

That first autumn fire of the season is always special.

A year ago, I lit a little fire and wondered if anyone would sit beside it. Some of you have been here since before Hearthlight was launched, when this publication was called Barbells & Poetry, which was a fun experiment, but ultimately unsustainable over time. You trusted the rebrand to Hearthlight, drew your chairs closer to the fire, and stuck around through the migration to Substack. I remember the OG's who signed up for Barbells & Poetry. Can you believe that Barbells & Poetry’s first publication was in March 2024? How this has changed over the last two years… In such an incredible way.

When I first started thinking "maybe I should have a newsletter", I honestly had no idea what I was trying to do. I was still in graduate school; I had only one book out at the time; I had very few followers; and I had no direction whatsoever. I was trying to find a way to engage with readers on a more regular basis, to build a base of people interested in what I had to say and how I said it. I had no plans for a community.

But somewhere along the way, around July or August of 2025, I realized that I no longer had the inspiration to write Barbells & Poetry. It no longer fit the kind of writer I was, and I had outgrown that format. It was time for a massive rebrand.

Not only did I redesign my newsletter, but I also redesigned my website and even took a new pen name. It was a massive overhaul that took months to do. In September of 2025, Hearthlight sparked the first ember in 38 inboxes. It stopped becoming about publication or building a following. It became about building a community. So, instead of a stage platform, I built a campfire and asked you all to gather with me.

I didn’t even tell you who I was. I just changed my name, built Hearthlight, and sent it out into the world, hoping that some of you would be intrigued enough to stick around. Many of you have.

Thank you for trusting the process.

While Hearthlight was finding its voice and footing, I finished my master's degree; I shared more personal stories with you; I became more vulnerable in my essays and in my poetry. Early Hearthlight was about announcements and philosophy, how therapy was rewiring my thinking. Now, Hearthlight lingers on the simple things in life: a cup of coffee, a sleeping dog, an open window, a star in the sky, an ember in the smoke.

With each move, with each change, with each glow-up, you have been here through it, and many of you gathered even closer to the fire through that time. There were months when I wasn't sure I had anything to say. There were seasons when keeping the fire lit felt harder than I expected. You were patient, and I didn’t lose you. That’s rare.

What surprised me more through this journey is what Hearthlight became. Not a newsletter, not a bunch of stories, not a brand—a community where ordinary lives matter. Where seasons are slowed down, creativity doesn’t have to hustle, grief can sit beside joy, books are friends, and the characters in them are family, there’s time to pet the dog, and small lights matter.

So tonight, as the smoke rises to the stars, remember where you were a year ago. Not as a way to list accomplishments or failures, but to see the growth. And remind yourself where you’re going. Smoke leaves the fire behind, but it also gives us a reason to look up.

If the fire has ever made you feel a little less alone, pull another chair closer. We're only one year in.