As I sat crisscrossed on Mrs. Lane’s third grade rug, I felt a gentle tug on my long braids. When I looked behind me, there was the girl—wiping her hands on her clothing and giving a gross look to her friends. When she noticed I was looking at her, she flashed a fake, insincere smile.

I didn’t know the word for it back then. I just knew something didn’t feel right. I hadn’t done anything to her. I didn’t even know her name. But in that small, sharp moment, I felt the sting of being made “other.” That moment stayed with me.

Years later, I still remember it—not because it was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but because it was the first time I realized some people would treat me differently for reasons I couldn’t control. That moment planted a seed. A quiet question started to grow inside me: Why do people do this? And what does God think about it?

Now, I write books for tweens. Stories where the main characters might be left out, misunderstood, or judged before they’re even heard. I write about injustice—not because I want to burden young readers, but because I believe in their power to see truth and stand for it.

Kids don’t need watered-down stories. They need stories that show what’s wrong—and what’s possible when we lean on faith, courage, and each other.