Meet Linda

I could start with listing my certifications in coaching and as a writing workshop leader, or name the places my stories have been published, or tell you about my memoir that came out in 2022.  Instead:

Let me tell you a story.

I’m eight years old, sprawled across weathered, wooden bleachers that groan each time I move. There’s a splinter throbbing in my finger and the sights and sounds of the Little League baseball game my brothers are playing are not enough to distract me. Not even the constant call of hey, batter, batter and the smell of buttered popcorn behind me.

 I open the diary my Aunt Joan bought me for my birthday, the kind with a padded cover filled with flowers and a little gold lock and key that my brothers have already picked open. Instead of writing the dramas of the third grade lunchroom, I start a story about an alien spaceship crashing into my backyard pool, its green and yellow lights flashing. Or maybe I write about a mermaid who dreams of leaving her watery world behind and cooking duck a l’orange in a fancy restaurant, the kind with cloth napkins and real silverware. I’m swept away by words and no longer hear the shouts of the game or feel the splinter pulse. 

 Stories carry you to new adventures

I’m 24, standing in front of a kindergarten class, trying to capture the attention of thirty wiggly, five-year-olds. There’s Willie who laughs as he slips from his seat and escapes the room. There’s Denise who leans over desks and whispers the latest playground gossip and Jack whose head bobs and eyelids flutter as he drifts off to sleep. 

 I turn to stories and weave them into my lessons and their eyes fill with wonder. Even Willie stays in the classroom. I tell them stories of the disgusting concoctions my brothers and I made in a blender, daring each other to drink. I make up stories about wizards learning to add or magic mushrooms soaking up the soil’s nutrients.  I create a storytelling program with puppets and buckets of books and toys that spark new stories. I staple paper together and hand each one a blank book - their word bank - and each one fills it with their own words that shimmer with meaning. They find stories everywhere.

 Stories captivate.

I’m 30, teaching piano. I’m at the church down the block, welcoming students and parents for our recital, when Ellen, a young teenager, bursts into the room, her music crumpled in her hands. “I can’t do it,” she says through tears. “I’m too afraid.” 

 I take her music and smooth out the wrinkles. I point to the little stars where we’ve marked phrases, reminding her of the song’s story, the one we crafted together. The opening chords when the king marches into the room, to the fanfare of trumpets. The staccato section when he tiptoes over hot coals spilled across the floor. And the lyrical section when he floats across the palace, like a scarf spinning in the wind. The music is a dance and it tells a story.

 She smiles, no longer seeing the angry dots of musical notes. She was afraid to play the song, but she knows she can play the story.

 Stories inspire confidence.

 I’m 45, and my heart shatters after my fifteen-year-old son, Brendan dies. An ache presses against me and I don’t know how to go on, how to pick up the pieces, how to breathe. I turn to words, writing long letters to my son each morning. I begin to feel him. I sense the warmth of his love spreading across my back like a warm embrace. Slowly, I build a bridge between our worlds. Those letters turn into stories, ones I share with family and friends, until one day, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open, my finger hovering over the keys. I take a deep breath, sipping in courage, and submit a story to The Washington Post. I scream when they accept it.

 I swim in stories, writing everyday. And now the letters come to me. Stories of lost loved ones and handwritten cards of gratitude because, somehow, my stories helped heal, not just myself, but others. Stories - even the tiny ones in everyday life - change us as we discover the meaning behind a moment. They transform the way we see ourselves and the way we write our future.

Stories become bridges—between what was and what is, between grief and grace.

But something else begins to stir.

I start dreaming of a harp.

I don’t play the harp. I never planned to. But night after night, I dream I’m playing it—waking up with my fingers tingling, as if they’ve been plucking invisible strings in my sleep.

I resist. And then one day, I don’t.
I buy a harp. I learn to play.

And the harp becomes a new kind of story—one without words, but full of feeling. It helps me enter the stillness I couldn’t reach through thought alone.
It’s where I feel closest to Brendan.
It’s where I return to myself.

Music, like story, became how I healed. And how I help others heal.

Today, I bring all of it—creativity, music, mindfulness, and reflection—into my work with clients. I’ve come to understand that healing doesn’t always come through words alone. Sometimes it’s the quiet pluck of a harp string, the rhythm of a poem, or the stillness found in mindful reflection that opens the door to something deeper.

Whether we’re writing through memory, listening to the resonance of live harp music, or exploring the gentle rhythm of our own breath, I help you find your way back to what’s true. To the stories that ground you. To the creativity that heals you.

I’m not here to hand you a blueprint or give you all the answers. I’m here to help you listen inward—to that quiet voice that knows its own way forward.

Because when you reconnect with your creative spirit—through words, through music, through mindful reflection—you begin to heal. You begin to expand. You begin to trust your voice again.

Creativity isn’t just about making something. It’s about remembering who you are.

Let’s rediscover what’s been inside you all along.