When I started writing The Storm that Broke the World, I didn’t set out to build a world where emotions had color or power.
I was trying to make sense of how deeply we feel—and how those feelings shape everything around us.

The story began with a single question:
What if emotion itself could be seen?
What if every hidden part of us—our anger, our grief, our empathy, our love—was visible, uncontrollable, and impossible to fake?

From there, The Storm that Broke the World became more than a story about survival. It became a reflection of what it means to be human in a world that constantly tests it.
Kalen’s grief, Elena’s hope, the storm that changed them—they’re all pieces of the same struggle we live every day: trying to hold onto ourselves when everything is shifting beneath us.

The color system grew out of that idea.
Red became defiance. Blue became memory. Gold became love—the most dangerous and beautiful force we have.
It wasn’t about superpowers or fantasy—it was about emotion itself as energy, the way it connects us and destroys us at the same time.

Writing The Storm that Broke the World was like watching light break through fog: painful, messy, and strangely healing.
It’s a story about loss and forgiveness, about how we carry the people we love long after they’re gone.
But above all, it’s about what happens when we finally stop running from how we feel—and start using it to build something new.

If the book leaves you with anything, I hope it’s this:
Even in the ruins, even when the world feels colorless, there’s always a spark waiting to come back to life.