I was sitting in my friend’s kitchen, confessing something that felt almost rebellious: I wanted to turn up the heat in my romance novels. More than that—I wanted to age up my heroine from 22 to 38 and make her a marketing executive.

My writing coach had told me to write what was selling. My editor had suggested I follow proven formulas. But I wasn’t inspired by writing another story about a young woman discovering herself. I’d already done that in my twenties. At forty-something, leading teams in a demanding corporate career and squeezing writing sessions into the narrow space between bedtime routines and morning meetings, I was hungry for something different.

That’s what my friend said. Immediately.

We both laughed. Then she leaned in: “I’m serious.”

That’s when I knew. She wasn’t just asking for a book recommendation. She was asking to see herself in fiction. To read about a woman who doesn’t apologize for her ambition. Who doesn’t have to choose between the boardroom and the bedroom. Who gets to be powerful AND desired, competent AND vulnerable, successful AND romantic.

I write for the women who were told romance was frivolous, who felt guilty about reading steamy scenes, who couldn’t find their story in books featuring heroines young enough to be their daughters. I write for my friend in that kitchen. For the director scrolling Instagram at lunch. For every woman who’s ever thought, “Where’s MY story?”

These stories matter. Your desire for intimacy, passion, and escape doesn’t diminish with age or responsibility—it deepens, gets more complex, becomes more interesting. You don’t have to search for yourself between the lines of characters who don’t understand your reality.

You have your own stories. And they’re worth reading.