A Childhood Marked by Words

I never realized that writing had always been my passion. As a child, I would scribble my emotions onto anything I could find—poems, fleeting thoughts, half-written lyrics, journal entries. Whether it was sand, pavements, walls, or paper, I needed an outlet. Writing was the only place where my thoughts demanded to be acknowledged. I never talked to people about it—maybe because I liked the idea of being unreadable, or maybe because writing was the only way I knew how to process the weight of my emotions. Maybe both.

When Life Took Over

There came a time when writing no longer had space to breathe. Life became louder—filled with responsibilities, expectations, and the constant noise of survival. Parenthood, sleepless nights, endless house chores, anxieties, loss, heartbreaks… it all stacked up. You know what? Scratch that—even just becoming a responsible, strong woman is hard. Somewhere along the way, I let my voice fade beneath the noise of everything else. Writing faded into the background, not because I stopped loving it, but because I stopped having the energy to hear myself think.

The Moment I Broke

Years passed before I picked up my pen again—not because I wanted to, but because I had no other choice. The box I had shoved into the back of my mind finally burst open, spilling everything I had tried to suppress. And when it did, I broke.

It happened on an ordinary day. I was in the kitchen, preparing lunch, my AirPods playing music in the background. Then, a lyric hit home—too hard, too deep. Before I could stop it, I was sobbing, tears mixing with the steam rising from the pot. My hands shook as I stirred, my chest tightening with every unspoken emotion that had been locked away for too long.

The Notebook That Waited for Me

The next morning, I woke up to a quiet house. It was the weekend. No rush, no obligations—just me. No alarms screaming this time. The hallways, too, remained still, untouched by hurried footsteps. Just silence, the kind that feels unfamiliar when you’re used to always being needed. I moved through the morning slowly, almost cautiously, unsure of what to do with the stillness.

That’s when I saw it. A forgotten notebook, resting at the edge of the shelf like it had been waiting for me to notice. Dust clung to its cover, and the edges were slightly curled—proof of time passing. But it was there. Patient. Undisturbed. As if it knew I would return when I was finally ready.

I picked it up, cradled it like something sacred, sat down, and opened it. My hands were still shaky, my handwriting a mess, but none of that mattered. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Every buried thought, every bottled-up feeling spilled onto the pages—raw, unfiltered, and aching to be seen. The words didn’t come out polished. They came out real. And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t writing to impress anyone. I was writing to survive.

Writing as Survival

And for the first time in years, I could breathe. Not just the shallow kind that keeps you moving through the day—but the kind that fills your lungs and softens your chest. The kind that says, you made it through something.

Pouring my burdens onto the page wasn’t just a relief—it was survival. It was the only way I knew how to loosen the grip of everything I had been carrying. All the thoughts that once circled in my head like a storm finally had a home. A place to land. A place to be seen without judgment. Safely tucked between the pages of my journal, they no longer controlled me. They simply existed—and that was enough.

Reclaiming My Dream

And through this, I rediscovered something I had forgotten—I have a passion. I have a dream. I have a path. Writing has always been mine and mine alone.

I may not write like the professionals, but that won’t stop me from writing, expressing, and being heard. To fully embrace this part of me, I created a name—Nyxra. A name that embodies the woman I aspire to be: one who writes fearlessly, embraces every emotion, and devours them all like cheesecake.

Let’s Build Something Together

Have you ever buried something so deep inside, thinking it was gone—only to feel it spill over when you least expected it? Writing did that for me. It cracked something open. It saved me.

If you’ve ever felt the same—like your silence has weight, like your story deserves space—let’s build something together. Follow my journey. Share yours. And let’s make our voices impossible to ignore.

This Is My Path

I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead—but for the first time in a long while, I know I’m walking in the right direction.
Not anyone else’s.
Mine.

Hi. I’m Nyxra.
It’s nice to meet you.