Writing through struggle

Writing has always been the place where I could tell the truth without actually having to speak it. It was the one outlet I had when I was young - a quiet corner where I could pour out everything I couldn’t say out loud. The notebooks stayed closed, hidden, untouched by anyone but me. My words were my secret, and in some strange way… my safety.

Starting this blog went against every instinct I built growing up. Sharing my writing felt like walking out into the open without armour. But when I finally did it, something shifted. I felt lighter. Freer. Like my words finally had room to breathe instead of suffocating inside me.

Maybe just maybe this was healing.

I’ve dissected my pain a thousand times. I can explain every angle, every trigger, every story. I can write essays on survival. Survival is easy for me. But healing? Letting go? Allowing the wound to actually close? That’s the part I’ve never learned.

But then something happened and I have been blocked. Not because I ran out of things to say - I never do - but because judgement came and something inside me tightened. Like a door slammed shut.  My body went into that old familiar stance: freeze, stay small, stay quiet.

I hate how fast it happened.

How quickly I could slip back into that place where silence feels safer than expression.

I keep telling myself I shouldn’t feel this way. That I know better now. That I’ve outgrown those old patterns. But knowing better hasn’t unlocked the words. Understanding the wound hasn’t stopped me from guarding it.

And the brutal truth - the one I don’t like saying even to myself - is that I still don’t feel entirely safe being heard.

And right now, staring at blank pages, feeling the words stuck somewhere inside my chest, I realize this battle isn’t about writing at all. It’s about giving myself permission to take up space. To speak, even when old voices tell me it’s safer to stay quiet. To trust that my voice isn’t a threat - that it can be a home.

A few weeks ago, I got a tiny tattoo of quotation marks on my hand. It’s delicate, small, almost unnoticeable to anyone else. But to me, it’s everything. It’s a promise - a vow to keep choosing my voice, even in seasons when I feel voiceless. A reminder that my story belongs to me, and I’m allowed to tell it, even if my hands shake.

So here I am - writing again, even if the words come out slow and uneven. Writing because something inside me is tired of freezing. Tired of staying small. Tired of disappearing into my own fear.

Maybe this isn’t a triumphant return.

Maybe it’s not polished or profound.

Maybe it’s simply honest.

And maybe - maybe that’s enough to start breathing again.

Thank you for being here 💕