About

If you’d asked me a few years ago where I’d be now, I wouldn’t have said, “Launching a blog.” Who even starts a blog in 2025? Back then I was happily employed, designing digital products at what I thought would be my forever job. I had energy to spare, I was running and lifting my way toward a dream body, and I was settling into my newly single life after divorce. For the first time in years, I felt like I was becoming the woman I always imagined I’d be.

And then life, in its usual meddling way, decided I looked a little too content and stepped in. Like many tech workers after the post-pandemic cooldown and the rise of AI, I got hit with a harsh reality check. My dream job became my dream former job, and I bounced between contract roles while my health and enthusiasm unraveled. I felt drained. My spine developed arthritis. My sleep fell apart. And as I tried to hold myself together, the world outside seemed to echo the instability. Quietly, I started to feel that particular kind of desperation women get when they sense they’re losing their grip on the life they fought so hard to build. I was humbled, quickly.

My mind spiraled. Would I ever find another full-time role? LinkedIn turned into a graveyard of layoffs, hiring freezes, and heartbreaking posts from people on the brink of foreclosure. The path I once saw so clearly began to feel like the dream of a woman I barely recognized. It all started to feel impossible.

I had skills, talent, and the curse of being a generalist, which is great if you want to be an entrepreneur — less great when you’re a chronically introverted stability-seeker. So I asked myself: What am I even striving for in my short time on this planet? I’m not dying, nowhere near it, but entering middle age has a way of showing you the hourglass choke point. You realize more sand has slipped through than what remains above it. You start paying attention to who or what helps you keep breathing when everything narrows.

For me, that came in the form of someone steady. Not a preserver, but air in my lungs. The reason I could start anything of my own at all. In the midst of this period, I met my partner, who believed what I had was worth sharing — and damn, he’s very convincing.

I didn’t intend to start a blog. Again, it’s 2025. I thought of a million other things I could do. I needed a place for my work and my thoughts that wasn’t tied to a 9–5. The problem? I had no earthly idea what that something was. I love art, but it doesn’t exactly pay tech-job money. I love photography, but the idea of turning it into a business built on reviews made my blood run cold. I love writing and storytelling, but ADHD said absolutely not. I was a product and graphic designer, but the passion was fading. And mostly? I love bitching. That’s too many things to fit into anything coherent.

So fine, I’ll start a blog. What’s the worst that could happen — publicly sharing my most intimate thoughts, art, anxieties, and contradictions in a creative outlet that endures forever? Apparently, you can just buy a domain and start waxing poetic about nothing in particular. Nobody is even going to stop you.

Thus, 8th Noon was born.

I don’t know if this will become anything more than a public diary. I don’t know if anyone will take it seriously (God, I hope not). But I do know why I’m here and what I want this space to say:

I was here.
And so was a lot of other cool shit.