When I first started writing Thought Spirals, it wasn’t going to be Jennifer’s story.

I had stacks of research, clinical studies, and my own hard-won insights about overthinking patterns. I planned to write a straightforward self-help book—clean, professional, packed with tools. Maybe a few anonymous case studies to illustrate points.

But six months into writing, I hit a wall. The chapters felt sterile. Educational, yes. Transformative? I wasn’t sure.

That’s when I mentioned to Jennifer—a client whose five-year transformation I’d been privileged to witness—that I was considering a book about overthinking in relationships. Her response was immediate: “Use my story.”

She explained: “I spent so many years thinking I was the only one who did this, that I was fundamentally broken. If my story helps one person feel less alone, less crazy, more hopeful—then every spiral was worth it.”

I almost said no. Using one person’s journey as the backbone of an entire book felt risky. What if readers couldn’t relate to her specific situation? What if her story overshadowed the broader tools? But as I sat staring at my manuscript, I realized her authentic transformation was exactly what was missing.

The Privacy Challenge

The decision to use Jennifer’s real story came with immediate logistical challenges. How do you tell someone’s authentic journey while protecting their privacy and that of everyone in their orbit?

We spent months working through this together. Jennifer shared her journals from the worst years—pages of midnight spirals, relationship post-mortems, and desperate attempts to figure out what was “wrong” with her. She celebrated every small victory we documented along the way. The thoughts, struggles, and breakthroughs in the book happened exactly as described.

But names had to change. “Jennifer” isn’t her real name, obviously. Her daughter Emma’s name is different. Her ex-husband, her therapy group members, even Kenneth—all protected by pseudonyms. I moved her from her actual Portland suburb to Happy Valley (though she laughed when I told her that choice, saying it was “ironically perfect” given her journey).

Building Jennifer’s World

Creating “Jennifer” meant protecting the real Jennifer while honoring her truth. Should I keep her age at 50? (Yes—that detail mattered to her story.) Portland area? (Changed to Happy Valley for privacy, though she’d probably laugh at that choice.) Divorced or never married? (Divorced—that shaped everything about her attachment patterns.)

The real Jennifer elements I kept were non-negotiable: her sharp wit, her career success despite personal struggles, her complicated relationship with her daughter Emma. I did give her some patterns from other clients—it felt more protective that way. But her core journey? Her capacity to change even when it felt impossible? That was purely hers.

The hardest part was her low moments. In Chapter 1, when Jennifer spirals at 3 AM about Mark not texting back, I drew from a dozen similar stories. Writing that scene, I found myself crying at my laptop. Not for Jennifer—for all the real women who’d sat in that dark place, convinced they were fundamentally unlovable.

The Resistance

Three chapters in, my editor suggested cutting Jennifer entirely. “The book is strong enough without her,” she said. “You don’t need a protagonist in non-fiction.”

I almost listened. Jennifer was complicating everything. Readers might not relate to her specific situation. What if her story overshadowed the tools? What if people got so invested in her romance with Kenneth that they missed the deeper work?

But then I remembered why I’d created her in the first place. Thought spirals aren’t abstract concepts—they’re lived experiences. They happen to real people with real histories, in real relationships that matter desperately to them. Jennifer made the work human.

What Readers See vs. What I Know

When readers tell me “Jennifer is so real!” they’re absolutely right—they just don’t know how right. They don’t know I based her Oregon childhood on actual conversations we had about growing up there. They don’t know her breakthrough in Chapter 10 happened almost exactly as written, just in my office instead of her therapist’s. They don’t know I rewrote her therapy sessions seventeen times to capture the authentic rhythm of real therapeutic work.

What they do know is recognition. Jennifer’s spirals feel familiar because they are—they’re pulled from the collective experience of anxiety in relationships. Her victories feel possible because they are—they’re based on real transformations I’ve witnessed.

The Responsibility

Writing Jennifer taught me something about responsibility as an author. Every choice I made about her journey would shape how readers saw their own possibilities. If she changed too quickly, I’d promote magical thinking. Too slowly, and I’d reinforce hopelessness.

I wanted her transformation to feel earned, not easy. Real change is messy, non-linear, and often frustrating. Jennifer needed to backslide in Chapter 13 because that’s what actually happens. Recovery isn’t a straight line, and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

The Letters

Since the book launched, I’ve received dozens of emails about Jennifer. Some readers want to know if she’s real (she is, just not singular). Others share their own stories, often starting with “Like Jennifer, I…”

One letter stopped me cold: “Jennifer gave me permission to believe I could change at 52. I thought I was too old, too set in my ways. But if she could break patterns at 50, maybe I could too.”

That’s when I knew Jennifer had done her job. She wasn’t just a teaching device—she’d become hope with a human face.

What I’d Do Differently

If I wrote this book again, I’d trust Jennifer’s story even more. I’d let her be messier, more contradictory. Real people aren’t consistent in their growth, and neither should fictional ones be.

I’d also resist the urge to make her too likeable. Growth requires confronting uncomfortable truths about ourselves, and Jennifer needed to be willing to look at her own patterns without flinching. Some readers found her self-awareness unrealistic, but I’d argue that’s exactly what makes change possible.

The Real Jennifer

Here’s what I can tell you: Jennifer is real—not composite, not metaphorical. She’s living in Happy Valley right now, probably laughing at my choice to keep her there in the book. She’s the grandmother who broke generational patterns, the woman who learned to interrupt her spirals, the person who discovered she could love without losing herself.

The real Jennifer gave me permission to share her story because she knew others needed to see that change was possible. If you see yourself in her journey, she’d probably tell you what she told me: “I thought I was broken. Turns out I was just stuck. There’s a difference.”

P.S. – I’m currently writing the companion book: “Thought Spirals: The Male Mind” told entirely through Kenneth’s perspective. Turns out, men’s overthinking patterns look completely different—but they’re just as destructive. While Jennifer spiraled about “Does he love me?”, Kenneth was spiraling about “Am I enough?” The book follows his journey from their first coffee date through the challenges of loving someone with anxiety while managing his own hidden thought spirals. If you’ve ever wondered what was really going through Kenneth’s mind during Jennifer’s breakthrough moments… you’re about to find out.