Let’s set the scene: I’m in high school, and left in the wake of yet another terrible relationship.

The relationship had been a special kind of toxic, the kind that should’ve heralded a warning: that this was the type of guy I would keep on attracting until I could actually find some self-worth.  I’d been treated like dirt, cheated on, and unceremoniously dumped.  He’d eventually return and I’d take him back, because it’s amazing how far you can bend over backwards when you don’t have a spine to stop you.  He’d dump me again, this time with a pocket full of insults instead of another girl waiting in the wings.

Let’s set a more specific scene: I’m in the car with my mom, sitting both passenger side and in the wake of the final break-up, venting about the newest set of verbal sparring — the terrible things he’d said about me, the things I’d said to friends in response, the anger and repulsion felt towards a guy I once thought I’d loved.

I look over and my mom is smiling amusedly.

“Oh, you two will get married someday.” Continue reading


My Voice

“Everyone can sing.  It’s just a matter of finding your range.”

“I’ve heard that before, but I don’t know if I believe it.”

It was one of those conversations in passing — a few lines before the dialogue shifted to something else — but it echoed a little bit in the back of my head.  It bounced off the cylinders that always seem to be running — the introspection and self-analysis, always trying to crack the code, always trying to reveal what might still be hidden. Continue reading


You don’t realize how stale the air is until you open the windows and let the spring breeze in.

It reminds me of something Melissa Febos says in her memoir Abandon Me: some burdens can only be measured by their relief.  I’m sure there’s bigger a tie-in for that quote somewhere, but, for now I just let it simmer, hanging out in the smell of melting ice and shifting winds.

Spring has been shyly introducing itself over the past couple days, and it is through this thawing that I realize how stagnant I feel. Continue reading

The Day Has Come!

The day has come!  Now you too will know what to do in the event the flower girl explodes!

(…or, kinda.)

It’s been a long six years — from inception, to editing, to trying to get an agent’s attention, to my Kindle Scout campaign, to today: release day.



You can get both the paperback and ebook on Amazon (currently two separate pages, but they’ll merge any minute now).

So what is the book about?  In the Event the Flower Girl Explodes is a biting comedy about weddings, love, communication, and family. The book touches upon the subtle and all-too-real heartbreaks that happen when we attempt to protect those we love. The main character goes through obstacles that are familiar to every twenty-something struggling in the real world.

But, don’t take my word for it:

My Best Friend’s Wedding with a rainbow twist! From the first page, readers will be sucked into Nicole Winger’s world. Smart, funny, new-grad Nicole wrestles with territory all too familiar to twenty-somethings… An entertaining read for anyone who enjoys their black humor with a side of substance (and a little frill).”
-Sara DiVello, bestselling author, Where in the OM Am I? One Woman’s Journey from the Corporate World to the Yoga Mat

“Abby is a fresh, relatable voice,” – Carina Stikus, author of Grandma’s How-To List for Getting Through Life

In the Event the Flower Girl Explodes is an amazing coming of age story that truly captures the feelings that build when we don’t know how to communicate about them. It culminates in lessons learned and renewed faith in oneself,” — Sarah Woodard, author of Adri’s Big Dream

“You will read chapter after chapter without noticing it,” – Ruty B, critic, Reading, Dreaming

So… go buy it!  Or else you’ll never know what to do in the event the flower girl explodes!  (Or…something.)

Just Not-Bad Enough

As I quickly learned, cleaning out your closet feels a lot like digging something up.

I had long-ago dropped the former-teacher narrative: not the story of my time as an early education teacher, but the tale of my quitting of the field — and quitting far too late, when the burnout had left indelible grit under my nails and a lingering cough in my throat.  It had taken a few years, but eventually the radioactive dust from the fallout of quitting had dissipated and the air had cleared out again.

But something always lingered.  The gnawing guilt, simultaneously over leaving and over not leaving soon enough — because I didn’t stick it out, and because I stuck it out when the best thing I could’ve done was leave.  Like any wound that didn’t get a clean cut, it festered and reinfected and took years before it finally scarred over. Continue reading

Follow Your Bliss

I have this little notebook — one of those impulse purchases from Marshall’s or TJMaxx, one of their cute & quirky notebooks the aisle over from the cute & quirky household goods — with the words Follow Your Bliss on the front.  I can’t tell you exactly when I got it; only that it was sometime close to when I started getting comfortable teaching yoga, when I started teaching more specialty classes and workshops, and I wanted a notebook to devote to the cause.

The pages are already half-filled with notes.  Little pink post-it flags delineate the different topics, and over time the stickies have folded in on themselves.  Notes for potential workshops, revised notes for workshops I’m able to do multiple times — and redundant notes, for workshops that could never get off the ground.  In between all this is a small smattering of poetry that I must’ve written when other notebooks weren’t around, poetry that just makes me sad when I stumble across them in the present day. Continue reading

Too Strong for The Role

It was inspired by the influx of my childhood toys.

My childhood belongings.  Their exodus a complex story in and of itself, one that — like many other portions of my narrative — will someday get its moment in the spotlight after enough emotional distance has been established.  But, for now, we’ll skip to the end, with the final cargo of my past now delivered to our house, our guest room looking more like an adolescent’s bedroom mid-pack, and me bitterly musing to myself, “Fitting enough.  The ghost of my upbringing has been the perennial guest as of late, anyway.”

But, again, that’s a story for another day.  Like many stories of mine, when it’s time to be revealed, I will unapologetically give it the stage. Continue reading