I was working as an assistant preschool teacher when I approached the Suspect Press table at the inaugural DiNK in spring 2016. I’d discovered the magazine a year prior at the Issue #6 release party at Mutiny Info Cafe and had been trying to get published in the mag ever since. I’d never seen anything like it, and when I learned that one of the editors was also a former evangelical from Iowa, I was determined to get involved. I was shy, self-conscious and shaking when I asked Josiah Hesse and Kaela Martin if they could use a volunteer for the summer. I was looking to get connected to the literary community in Denver, and was tired of letting my anxiety hold me back from my dreams. It turned out Suspect Press was in a transitional phase and were eager to have some help.

I started small—counting inventory, creating spreadsheets and setting up a basic website—followed by helping with events and distribution, and attending editorial meetings in the office above City, O’ City (I remember a pet tortoise nipping at my toes during my first meeting). By then I’d lived in Denver for four years, but I barely knew the city. I was intimidated by it, having only lived in small towns previously. I was new to understanding the world and how to fit into it, and I was still under the impression I wasn’t supposed to be “of the world,” though by that point I’d left the religion that had instilled that belief in me. 

I wasn’t used to being sociable or fitting in with any particular crowd, when all of a sudden I found myself in what I deemed the coolest community in Denver. I looked up to the SP team like they were the Beats incarnate (the writers who influenced my exit out of Iowa) and I hardly knew what to say when asked my opinion about what to publish in the magazine. It didn’t feel like my place. I didn’t know the people they knew. I didn’t know the city they represented. I was just some quiet girl, easy to overlook, who was yet to learn how to use her voice.

When the following school year started, I continued to show up to the SP office every Friday afternoon, earning the title of Assistant Editor in Issue #11. My knees went weak when I saw my name printed in the masthead. I felt I didn’t deserve it. I wasn’t cool enough. Experienced enough. But I loved the work and the people I got to work with and I eventually earned my way up to Managing Editor, then Fiction Editor, until October 2017 when I purchased the company with Josiah from Dan Landes and took over as editor-in-chief. I’d just left my reliable teaching position to put all of my energies into the magazine and help build a book publishing branch, risking my financial security. I doubt I would’ve had the courage to do so if it weren’t for Dan and Josiah believing in me and inspiring me on the path.

 I grew up in the Church hearing that women shouldn’t have a say over men. It was uncomfortable at first, directing Josiah and Lonnie (and then Brice, Jack, Shimma and Padideh). Who was I to tell them what to do and when to get it done? But these guys weren’t just colleagues—they’d become two of the best friends I’ve ever known. They were kind and patient, encouraging me to make the final call about cover art, or a story for an upcoming issue. My confidence grew, along with my skill and drive, as the space I had in which to strengthen my voice expanded.

I started trusting my own opinions about art and literature and how to best communicate with the people I interacted with: the local business owners, events coordinators, contributors and other publishers. I learned that I didn’t have to look at my feet when face-to-face with someone in an authoritative position, or simply a position that I deemed more important than mine. I started meeting people’s eyes, initiating meetings, expanding my social world, and collaborating on multiple projects. I started trusting that I knew what I wanted and it was okay to ask for the things I needed to get them. I’d never pictured myself going into business. I graduated college with an impractical English degree and no career goals other than the vague “I want to be a writer.” I think that most of us, as young adults, have some idea of what we’d like to do with our lives, but life surprises us with opportunities we can’t imagine until they happen. As someone who’s always hated working with numbers, I wouldn’t have guessed that I’d one day be my own business accountant or tax preparer. I still dread these tasks, but the fact that I taught myself to do them in order to be my own boss is something I’ll never regret.

Not only has my time with Suspect Press taught me that I’m capable of much more than I ever dreamed possible, it has been my catalyst for making nearly all of the friends I have today. Suspect has also been my catalyst for coming out queer, for teaching my weekly writing class, and for writing my memoir about growing up in evangelical purity culture—a project that allowed me to acknowledge that I have a story worth sharing. Telling our stories is what gives others the confidence to tell theirs, and when we share our stories, we grow in empathy, awareness, and understanding. That is the power of community, art and literature.

These past four years, I’ve viewed Suspect Press as something like my child. I’ve nurtured it, had fun with it, watched it grow, and learned countless lessons from this business. My heart breaks to let it go. I wouldn’t be the self-loving, self-confident person I am today if not for this beautiful DIY subversive weirdo creative community. Thank you all for supporting our magazine, books and events. You’ve made an unbelievable difference in my life, even if we’ve never met. Thank you for hearing my voice and for trusting the authenticity of the content we curate for you. 

From here, I’ll be moving on with the gumption to do anything I set my mind to. I have a book to publish. I have a screenplay to produce. My ambition knows no end.

My advice to anyone looking to achieve their dreams: Keep showing up.