Mathew Moslow is a writer, researcher, and nursing student who straddles the worlds of science and story with equal intensity. Born and raised in Jamaica, he grew up attuned to the unspoken—the micro-expressions, the silences, the inherited scripts that shape how we love, leave, and heal. That sensitivity, both a gift and a burden, now threads its way through his work.
His first book, A Novel Divorce, emerged not in the aftermath of closure, but in the disorienting middle—written between clinical rotations, lectures, and long nights alone at the page. Divorce, for Moslow, wasn’t a single moment. It was an unraveling. And writing became a quiet rebellion against the urge to compartmentalize pain.
Curious by nature and self-aware by necessity, Moslow doesn’t just observe people—he studies them, including himself. He’s candid about his flaws. “I’m selfish, judgmental. It’s hard to do better sometimes,” he’ll admit, not to dramatize, but to demystify the work of growth. And in that space between self-critique and self-compassion, something honest emerges: connection.
When he isn’t immersed in nursing textbooks or shaping the next chapter of his forthcoming novel A Year and a Day, you’ll likely find him at home—cooking, reflecting, tending to the quiet rituals that make life feel inhabitable again. He’s a homebody, yes, but offer good company and a reason to toast, and he might just show up—curious as ever.
To Moslow, the act of writing is inseparable from the act of becoming. His tools: language, reflection, and an ever-present desire to make meaning out of mess. Whether exploring the contours of the Enneagram, the logic of the body, or the tender friction between love and loss, his work invites us to ask: What if the story isn’t over when we think it is?
