(a.k.a. Tina Lambert), a 1989 wordsmith straight out of San Diego’s endless-summer factory—think flip-flops, fish tacos, and enough sunshine to power a small creativity reactor. After a five-year tropical detour on Oahu (where I basically lived inside a postcard), I surfed back to the mainland in 2023 because even superheroes need to get back to reality.

By day, I’m a software developer who hacked my way into the gig via an eight-month coding bootcamp that was basically “Drink coffee, cry, compile, repeat.” By night (and lunch breaks, and 3 a.m. inspiration strikes), I’m a poet, writer, spoken word poetry performer, crafter, and DIY wizard who could probably MacGyver a spaceship out of glitter and hot glue.

Growing up,

my childhood was like a cosmic sitcom nobody green-lit.

Dad roared in on a Harley, blasting "Highway to Hell", party rocking and chain-smoking like a chimney, while grinning like the eternal class clown who kept getting detention—in jail.

Mom countered with Sunday mass marathons, starched dresses, and a holy-water sprinkler that could douse a bonfire.

Their “how we met” story? Opposites attract, clearly—but it turns out they had one thing in common...cookies. Vanilla wafers, to be exact. Yup, that's right! This mutual delight ignited in the cookie aisle.

Caught in the crossfire

of leather jackets and rosary beads, I spent years playing Switzerland—until my junior year of high school, when I'd had enough of my pesky peers' bullying, and swerved straight into Dad’s “screw it” lane. I ditched the rulebook, started owning my weird, and spent the next couple decades trying to figure myself out.

Fast-forward:

• By age 28, I was an impressive partier who could keep up with the best of 'em.

• Age 30, professional drinker (could mix a martini in my sleep).

• Age 32, hot-mess express in full denial.

• Age 33, white-flag moment—I checked myself into rehab, kickstarting the world’s messiest relay race: relapse, recovery, therapy, repeat. Somewhere between the breakdowns and breakthroughs, I rewired my entire operating system.

Today? Sober (since August 24th, 2023), thriving, and waving a giant foam finger for anyone still stuck in the struggle. Mental health? I’m the hype squad. Addiction? I’m living proof the game’s winnable. If this chaos gremlin can adult, trust me…your turn’s coming. 

Through every plot twist of my soul-searching odyssey, one co-star never wavered: my obsession with writing — poetry edition. Pre-recovery, I was convinced booze turned me into Einstein and Shakespeare’s love child, scribbling genius between shots.

Spoiler: the real magic was always the words, not the whiskey.

I’d often whip up custom poems for loved ones like a custom gift-wrap service, ranging from hilarious roasts to gooey heart-tuggers. In fact, my debut book, Give it Your Best Kid, started as a poem for my unborn nephews (because nothing says “welcome to the world” like a sonnet).

One stanza led to another, and suddenly I had a full-blown non-fiction children’s book in verse that’s equal parts Dr. Seuss and life coach. Who knew encouragement could rhyme so well?

When I’m not debugging code, polishing agates, or doing some deep inner reflection, I’m juggling hobbies like a circus act on caffeine: refurbishing furniture, hand-crafting home decor, or turning random junk into “art”.

Buckle up, world—I’m just getting warmed up. More poems, projects, and probably a rock tumbler symphony are headed your way.

Stay tuned!