Hometown Roots: A Love Letter to Mt. Carmel, Tennessee

I was raised in the small town of Mt. Carmel, Tennessee — a place so woven into the fabric of who I am that I sometimes think my bones are made of its red clay and my heart still beats in rhythm with those Appalachian hills. My parents moved us there when I was five, and from the moment my feet hit that Tennessee soil, my childhood unfolded like something out of a wholesome 80s movie.

We lived in a middle‑class neighborhood where the kids roamed in packs, organized by age and by street. Spruce Street kids stuck with Spruce Street kids, Poplar Street kids drifted in and out, and the whole neighborhood operated on one sacred rule: you went out in the morning and you didn’t come home until the streetlights flickered on. No phones. No schedules. Just bikes, scraped knees, Kool‑Aid mustaches, and the kind of freedom today’s kids will never fully understand.

I swear, a movie could be made about that neighborhood — the friendships, the innocence, the way the world felt big and small all at once.

As many of you know, I just wrote my first book, and the opening chapters are set right there in Mt. Carmel. That town shaped me, raised me, and gave me the foundation for everything I’ve become. So, on my recent visit home, I decided to do something that felt both surreal and full‑circle: I asked if I could hang a few flyers to promote my book.

Naturally, my first stop was Dairy Cup — the iconic little spot founded by my across‑the‑street neighbors, the Smiths. They don’t own it anymore, but the food is still just as delicious, and walking in felt like stepping back into my childhood. They graciously let me hang a flyer on their window, and I left with a full belly and a full heart.

Then I scooted across the street to the Mt. Carmel Public Library to donate a copy of my book. What happened next is something I’ll carry with me forever.

I met the librarian, Amy, introduced myself, and offered the book as a donation. She paused, looked something up on her computer, and then smiled at me with the kind of grin that makes your eyes sting.

She told me she had already ordered my book for the library — because someone in the community had recommended it.

I just about melted into a puddle right there between the stacks.

Someone from my hometown suggested my book. And the librarian ordered it. For the shelves of the very library that helped raise me.

It tickled me to death. Truly.

Mt. Carmel gave me the foundation upon which my whole life has been built — and even now, in this more “mature” season of life, it continues to cheer me on. To support me. To show up for me in ways big and small.

So, here’s to Mt. Carmel. My people. My old neighbors. My roots. My foundation.

Thank you for continuing to be there for me. Thank you for lifting me up. And thank you for reminding me that no matter how far I go, I will always belong to you.