A Story Born From Fear, Faith, and a Tiny Seed of Hope

How Trees on the Moon Was Born in a Hospital Room

I started writing Trees on the Moon when Amelia was born. Right there in the hospital, in the middle of the fear and the hope, I was holding at the same time.

Those early days were heavy. I was learning to breathe through uncertainty, to advocate, to pray, and to steady myself in a world that suddenly looked nothing like what I had imagined. And in the quiet moments beside her crib, when the monitors beeped and the room felt too small for everything I was carrying, I needed something to hold on to.

The day her story began. My babygirl, tiny and fighting, teaching me what courage looked like before she was even a day old.

So I read to her.

Every night, I would open books and try to speak life into a place that felt fragile, on the verge of breaking. One of those books talked about all the things a child could grow up to be, and it sparked something in me. Because even in that hospital room, even with everything we were facing, I knew Amelia’s story would not be defined by limits.

And because I’m a nerd, and because “A is for Amelia”, we started imagining all the things she could be that began with A.

An astronaut.

An arborist.

And then one day I thought, well… what if she plants trees on the moon?

The world around her felt impossibly heavy. Machines, wires, alarms. Even in all of that, I began imagining something bigger for her.

That idea rooted itself inside me. It felt whimsical and impossible, sacred and hopeful — because hope often begins with a sentence that sounds too big for reality.

So I began creating this poem for her.

At first, it was silent, something I held inside my own heart to keep myself standing under the weight of everything happening around us. And then, slowly, I started speaking it out loud, whispering both prayers and possibilities into the atmosphere, imagining the future I was fighting for, choosing hope on purpose. The dreams she could chase, the worlds she might build, the courage she was already showing.

In the middle of fear, I found ways to speak hope. I read to her, held her, whispered prayers and dreams — believing that one day she’d grow beyond all of this.

Trees on the Moon became a way for me to stay anchored in hope, to imagine beyond the walls we were in, and to speak life over the very future I was fighting for. It’s a love letter to Amelia, but also to every child who grows up learning that their story can rise above circumstances, limitations, and fear.

And then little by little, she showed me the miracle she is. This is the moment I knew the story I dreamed for her would become reality.

It started as a poem to keep me believing.

Now it’s a book to help other families believe, too.