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.

But then, life happened—a brutal one. Parenthood, sleepless nights, endless house chores, anxieties, loss, heartbreaks. You know what? Scratch that—even becoming a responsible and strong woman is hard. Writing faded into the background, buried under the weight of survival.

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 next morning, I woke up to a quiet house. It was the weekend. No rush, no obligations—just me. That’s when I saw it. A forgotten notebook, sitting there like it had been waiting for me. I picked it up, sat down, and started writing. My hands were still shaky, my handwriting a mess—but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Every buried thought, every bottled-up feeling spilled onto the pages, raw and unfiltered.

And for the first time in years, I could breathe.

Pouring my burdens onto the page wasn’t just a relief—it was survival. The overwhelming thoughts that once consumed me finally had a place to rest, safely tucked between the pages of my journal.

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.

Have you ever buried something so deep inside that it eventually spilled over? Writing did that for me. If you’ve ever felt the same, let’s build something together. Follow my journey, share your story, and let’s make our voices impossible to ignore.

I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead, but one thing is certain—I’m finally on the right path. My path.

Hi! Nice to meet you.