I was born to South Asian immigrant artists and raised in the American West.

 

Through my writing, I return again and again to what feels inexhaustible within my imagination: the ecosystems that bind us, the slow ache of immigrant sorrow, the ordinary faces of cruelty, the layered, bewildering textures of Muslim girlhood.

 

I write about sex, sensuality, and hunger, about the beloved and the body, about what it means to call yourself human, animal, or divine in a world where those categories collapse so easily. I think often about grief. Grief beyond a singular monolith but as a chorus, polyphonic and contradictory.

 

And always, circling back: God. I suspect most thought is a kind of thinking toward God, however oblique.

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You can find my work here

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​I live in a quiet, mostly uneventful stretch of the American West, where the most arresting interruption to a Costco run is the sudden gaze of cows.

 

I share this life with my husband, Dr. John C. Dulin, who is both my anchor and my astonishment. 

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Thank you for being here.  And anywhere. 

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Feel free to reach out. 

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​​​With love,
Jaia

xx