I’ve always loved writing.
Even as a child, long before I understood what pain or poetry meant, I found comfort in the way words flowed — like tiny bridges from my heart to the world.

But somewhere along the way, life — in all its chaos and sharp corners — knocked that part of me loose.
Grief, betrayal, exhaustion, motherhood — they came like waves I couldn’t outswim. And in the middle of surviving, I let go of the page.

I stopped writing.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t hear myself anymore.

It wasn’t until the weight of life pinned me down — when I had no one to talk to, nowhere to place the ache — that I picked up my pen again.
It was old. The notebook was dusty. But the moment I touched it, something inside me cracked open. My hand became a faucet for everything I couldn’t say out loud.

Anger spilled first. Then grief.
Then, slowly — meaning.

Writing became the place where I could be real. Not pleasing. Not performing. Just… present.
It became my sanctuary.
It held space for me when no one else could.

Now, I write not just to make sense of the past — but to claim myself again.
To let the broken parts speak.
To remember that silence has a weight, but so do words.

And maybe, just maybe — someone out there will read what I’ve written and feel a little less alone.
And that… makes it enough.