Chips, Queso, and a Divine NUDGE: The Story Behind "Surviving the Silence"

They say some of the best ideas are born in boardrooms. We’d argue the truly life-changing ones are born over a bowl of white queso and a basket of salty tortilla chips.

Our new book, Surviving the Silence: A Meet-You-at-the-Front-Door Approach to Surviving Stillbirth and Miscarriage, officially hit the shelves in December, but the journey to page one didn’t start with a literary agent or a fancy contract. It started with three acquaintances, who shared a very common, heartbreaking thread: miscarriage and stillbirth.

The "Nervous" Mexican Dinner

A little over two years ago, Kelvi invited Laurel and Janelle over for Mexican food. On the surface, it was just three friends catching up. Underneath, Kelvi’s heart was racing.

You see, the three of us have been tethered together for years by the experience no woman ever wants to have: the loss of a baby through miscarriage and stillbirth. We had spent years showing up on each other’s porches, offering Christian shoulders to cry on and beautiful gifts and mementos of our babies, all while navigating the messy, quiet rollercoaster of grief together.

Kelvi felt a persistent urge to turn our shared survival into a roadmap for others. But asking your friends to write a book with you is a bit like inviting them to build a house from the ground up—exciting in theory, but a serious commitment that takes time, grit, and a whole lot of heart.

The "Whoa" and the "Wait..."

When Kelvi finally blurted out the idea between bites of quesadilla, the reactions were a perfect snapshot of our trio:

• Laurel: Immediately hit the brakes. "Whoa, I'm no writer!" (Spoiler alert: She is!)

• Janelle: Sat in a stunned, amused silence. (Always intentional and purpose-filled in her words.)

As it turns out, God had already been "pre-heating" the oven. Janelle shared that just the night before, her devotion had looked her right in the eyes and said: "If God calls you to write, you should write."

In that moment, the chips were forgotten. We knew this wasn't just a "good idea"—it was a God-assignment.

Two Years of "Joy & Grief"

The process wasn’t all sunshine and bookmarks. It took two full years of monthly/semi-monthly meetings at Kelvi’s house to hammer out the heart of this book. We shared thoughts, wrestled with edits, and collaborated on how to best serve the women navigating their own losses.

Not to mention, the road to "how to publish a book" was a mountain of its own, one we all three had no experience with. Some challenges we faced:

• The Writing Rollercoaster: Recounting our stories was a beautiful, but difficult process. It uncovered emotions that had long been tucked away both intentionally and unintentionally. It exposed insecurities and doubts. But it also brought out hope and healing. Navigating tough emotions head-on with God at the wheel.

• The Developmental Edit: About a year in, we had a professional look at our groundwork. It was humbling to see what needed to be added, reworded, or—in some cases—tossed out entirely to make the message clearer. It was humbling and valuable all at the same time.

• The Search for Support: Where does a person even start when trying to publish a book? That's the question we asked ourselves as the three of us had zero experience in book publishing. Finding the right publishing route and the right people to guide us felt like a scavenger hunt where the map was written in a different language. It took us four whole months to find the right partner to bring the book to life. But after numerous emails, phone calls, and Zoom interviews, we felt confident we had chosen the best option for us: a hybrid self-publishing model.

A Healing Kind of Magic

Through every "up" and every frustrating "down," the hand of God was the glue. In the process of writing Surviving the Silence, we set out to create a resource for others walking through miscarriage and stillbirth. What we didn’t fully expect was how deeply the process would continue healing us. Putting words to pain gave it shape. Sharing our stories gave them breath. Sitting with one another’s grief—again and again—softened the sharpest edges. The book became more than pages and ink; it became a sacred space where our own healing found another layer of completion.

We learned that grief can feel like a silent room—still, isolating, heavy. But silence does not mean absence. It does not mean you are forgotten. And it certainly does not mean you are alone. When stories are spoken, when hands reach across the quiet, when light is invited in, that room begins to change.

If given the chance, we would say yes to this journey all over again. Not because it was easy, but because it was meaningful. Because healing multiplies when it’s shared. And because even in the silence, hope has a way of finding its voice.

And if we’re being honest? We’d probably do it all again the same way we started—around a table, hearts open, drafts and ideas scattered… and a basket of chips with plenty of queso in the middle.