Tonya Mills

The universe definitely has a sense of humor, or at least a knack for perfect timing.

Lately, I’ve been deep in Chapter 3, reliving my years as a young mom making some incredibly wild choices. I’m writing openly about leaving my daughter with my parents to chase what I thought was freedom. It’s a chapter full of things I never thought I’d see myself do.

Fast forward to today: I was at my computer filling out the portal forms for a routine physical. Everything was normal until I hit the drug history section. Have I ever taken them? Ever?

Ouch! Talk about a hard pill to swallow.

It’s one thing to type your deepest secrets into a manuscript that will eventually be out in the world. It’s an entirely different thing to stare at that question on a medical form and hit "yes."

Writing a memoir is one thing. Facing its clinical reflection on a computer screen is another.

On Saturday, something happened that quietly shifted the ground under my feet.

I was visiting my sister, catching up with my cousin, and we ended up talking about our childhoods — the stories we carry, the ways we learned to survive. I asked my sister about a pivotal moment in my life, a memory I’ve always held with absolute clarity.

Her answer overturned it completely. What I remembered so vividly wasn’t how it happened at all.

It felt like watching a piece of my personal life rewrite itself in real time. Disorienting. Strange. Almost like a small betrayal inside my own mind.

But here’s the part that struck me as a writer:
Sometimes the story you think you know takes a turn you never saw coming.

Not just on the page, but in your own life.

The mind protects us in ways we don’t always understand — reshaping, rearranging, creating emotional logic when the truth is too heavy to hold. And sometimes, years later, the real story steps forward.

I’m still sitting with it. But I’m also reminded that being a writer means staying open to the unexpected — even when the plot twist is your own.

A writer’s life has its own strange hours.
Tonight it woke me at 12:30, ideas for the next chapter running around in my head like elephants until I finally gave in and got up to write them down.

So here I am at 2 a.m., wide awake with a cup of honey‑lavender tea, wishing I could drift back to sleep but grateful the words showed up. This is the part of the process no one sees — the quiet, restless moments when the story refuses to wait for morning.

Last night, when I was trying to fall asleep, my mind decided it was the perfect time to get loud.
Not dramatic — just that quiet, persistent whisper that knows exactly where the soft spots are.

What are you doing?
This isn’t what you thought it would be.
Why are you even doing this?

And for a moment, I almost believed it. I started wondering if any of this was worth the effort.

Memory is strange — uneven, blurry in places for a reason. Digging into the past brings up a heaviness that can make the writing feel slow, thick, and emotional. And then the doubts line up like they’ve been rehearsing: maybe I’m not strong enough, disciplined enough, or organized enough to carve out the time this book deserves.

I tell myself I should be able to do this. So why does it feel like I’m wrestling myself? Yes, I have responsibilities — plenty — but are they really so overwhelming that I can’t make space for my own story?

And then the familiar questions show up:
Who wants to hear this?
Is my story interesting enough?
Does it matter?

Underneath all of that, there’s a deeper kind of tiredness — not from lack of sleep, but from the part of me that spent years protecting the things I’m now trying to unearth. That version of me did what she had to do. I’m grateful for her. But she doesn’t get to steer anymore.

And no — I’m not quitting. Not even close.

It’s just going to take longer than I imagined. And honestly, what made me think I could unpack parts of my life, dark parts, parts I wanted to forget, quickly and neatly, and somehow capture all the emotion without stumbling?

I thought I had learned how to let go, how to just be.
But this process keeps reminding me:
there are always more layers,
more lessons,
more truth waiting to be written.

I finally gave in and tried the ChatGPT caricature craze. Curiosity wins again.

We gathered this weekend for a Garden of the Gods–themed birthday, surrounded by laughter, color, and the type of friends that lift the spirit. It’s amazing how a bit of joy and friendship can rejuvenate you.

Send a message to learn more

Almost four years without my mom, and Mother’s Day still brings a mix of emotions. But this year, something softened. I wrote about that change, her love of writing, and what I’m learning as I write my book.

https://magickalprose.wixsite.com/magickalprose/post/a-mother-s-day-made-of-ink-and-absence

For years, the vines on our back fence were just clutter to me - overgrowth I planned to clear “one day.” After five years in this house, I finally decided to pull them back and uncover what was underneath: a stone wall, a beautiful fence, things I hadn’t really seen in a long time.

Then the other night, I stepped outside with Aleister and caught this soft, unexpected, sweet scent in the air. I followed it and realized it was the vines. Blooming. Jasmine. Their first bloom since we’ve lived here.

It stopped me. Because this is exactly what I’m writing about in my book—the way we build stories around things, the way we assume we already know what we’re looking at. Sometimes we label something as “messy” or “in the way,” and it turns out to be carrying something tender we just haven’t witnessed yet.

Not everything is what it seems. Sometimes the truth waits for the right moment to open.

John and I spent the weekend in New Braunfels for a class, and it turned into one of those experiences that leaves you tired, inspired, and quietly rearranged. The kind of learning that nudges you back toward yourself.

We stayed just down the road from the classroom, tucked into a small, thoughtfully designed room surrounded by nature and stillness. Something about the quiet—paired with the intensity of the class—helped reset me a bit.

I’m sharing a few photos because the place carried its own story. The “Texas Ranger” window in the museum room is an original piece from the 1920s or 30s. That room leans into Texas/country themes, while ours was styled after the 1920s—simple, cozy, and full of character.