Hello there, I’m Lawrence Quinn. If you’re reading this, thank you. It means a lot that you're taking the time to get to know the person behind these words. I never imagined I'd be writing books, sharing pieces of my heart with the world, and finding purpose in stories—especially my story. But life has a beautiful (and sometimes brutal) way of shaping us into who we were always meant to become.
I’m 35 years old, a wife, a mother, a woman who once shattered into pieces but found the strength to rebuild—wiser, braver, and happier than I ever thought possible.
Today, I live in a warm, laughter-filled home with my incredible husband, our beautiful son, and our four-legged ball of chaos and love—Fury, our dog. My life is soft, wild, sometimes messy, and deeply fulfilling. But it hasn’t always been this way.
There was a time I didn't recognize the woman I am now. I was quiet. Insecure. So unsure of where I belonged or what I deserved. I tiptoed through life, always accommodating others, constantly dimming my light because I didn’t think I deserved to take up space. And then it happened—the break that cracked my soul wide open.
I was engaged to someone I thought was "the one." I bent myself backward to make that relationship work, even when it left me feeling smaller. I was willing to lose myself entirely for love, not realizing that real love doesn’t ask for your silence—it calls out your voice. And just when I thought I had everything figured out, he left me. Coldly. Suddenly. It broke me.
I cried for days. Weeks. I felt like my heart had fallen off a cliff and shattered at the bottom. The pain wasn’t just about the end of the relationship—it was about everything I’d given up to stay in it. I didn’t just lose a fiancé. I lost who I thought I was.
Then came the hardest—and most important—choice of my life. I could stay there, broken, or I could rebuild.
It didn’t happen overnight. Healing is not glamorous. It’s not linear. Some days I was on fire; other days, I could barely move. But with every tear, every journal entry, every sleepless night, something inside me started shifting. I stopped asking, “Why wasn’t I enough for him?” and started asking, “Why wasn’t he enough for me?”
I dug deep. I learned to sit with discomfort. I got therapy. I read books. I forgave myself. I started doing little things just for me—singing in the car again, wearing bright lipstick without apology, going to dinner alone and enjoying it. I began reclaiming my voice, my confidence, my joy.
And then, when I wasn’t even looking, love found me again. The real kind. The kind that saw all of me—flaws, scars, beauty, brilliance—and didn’t flinch. My husband, the love of my life, didn’t save me. I had already done that. But he held my hand as I kept walking forward. Together, we built something honest, silly, safe, and strong.
Then came our son, who changed everything in the best way. He reminds me daily that bravery doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just waking up and choosing to try again. He has my heart, my humor, and—let’s be honest—my stubborn streak. And Fury, our wildly affectionate dog, reminds me that chaos can be beautiful, too.
So why do I write?
Because I know what it’s like to feel small. I know what it’s like to have a dream but think you’re not worthy of it. I know the ache of heartbreak, the silence of insecurity, the noise of anxiety. And I also know what it’s like to come out the other side stronger.
I write to reach out a hand to anyone who’s ever felt lost in their own skin, stuck in a moment they didn’t choose, or too scared to start over. I write for the quiet ones, the hopeful ones, the resilient ones. I write because stories heal, and because telling mine reminds me that we are never alone in our pain—or in our power.
In this book, and in every word I put into the world, my hope is simple: that you find something that feels like truth. Something that permits you to feel, to fall, to rise, and to become exactly who you were always meant to be.
I am not perfect. I still doubt myself. I still have hard days. But I’ve stopped trying to be “enough” for anyone but me. I am proud of the woman I’ve become—not in spite of the heartbreaks, but because of them. I found my strength in the ruins. And now I live, love, and write from that place—with honesty, with courage, and with my whole heart.
To those walking through their storms right now, I see you. You’re not broken. You’re becoming.
And if no one’s told you today: you’re worthy. You’re lovable. You’re enough.
"Rock bottom didn’t break me—it built the foundation I now stand proudly on."
Always Best Regards,
Lawrence Quinn
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