Carried, Not Sold: Why I've Started Giving Milo Away

I’ve started a new practice. I carry copies of Milo’s first book with me sometimes in my car, sometimes tucked into my bag. And when the moment feels right, I hand one to a family.

There’s no pitch.No explanation beyond something simple, like, “This is a book I wrote for adorable and special kids just like yours.”

It’s usually a feeling that moves me first. A tightening in my chest. A soft urgency that says, Pay attention. I notice a child who looks like they’re carrying more than they should. Parents who are present, but not quite connected. A moment that feels ordinary on the surface, but heavy underneath. And something in me knows...this book belongs here.

What I’ve come to understand is that Milo offers a kind of healing we don’t usually call medicine. He doesn’t fix broken bones or lower fever. Instead, he tends to the places inside of us that feel broken, impatient, unseen.The places that cry out, “It’s not fair. Why me?”The places that don’t yet have language, but ache all the same.

When I see a child looking lost, or parents who seem disconnected from their children in some fundamental way, it’s almost as if Milo himself taps me on the shoulder and says, It’s time to help. Giving a book in those moments doesn’t feel like marketing.It feels like an answer to a cry for help. Because what I know, more than anything, is that stories have the power to heal. They can reach places ordinary words can’t.They can lift us when logic fails and advice falls flat.They can hold pain gently, without demanding it be explained or solved. When kids can’t connect their inner worlds in a language their parents can hear or understand, stories swoop in and do the translating.They say the hard things softly.They make the invisible visible.

I used to think sharing Milo meant launches and plans and strategies.And those things have their place. But this, this feels like the truest expression of the work.One human to another. One story offered, not sold. One small act of faith that something kind might land where it’s needed.

I don’t know what happens after I hand the book over. And I often wonder which pages will be dog-eared or read aloud at bedtime, or whether Milo will become a quiet companion during a hard season. But in the giving, in that one moment, I know I’ve offered something more than kindness. I’ve offered connection.

In the end, Milo was never meant to live on shelves or websites alone. He was meant to be carried. Passed hand to hand. Given in moments that don’t announce themselves as important, but are. This isn’t a marketing strategy. It’s a practice. It’s what it means, for me, to walk the Milo Way—listening closely for where love wants to go next. 💞