Member-only story
May these words feel like company.
Writing In My Mess
Some of the loudest battles are fought in solitude with a pen and paper.
I didn’t start writing to be read.
I started writing because there were things I couldn’t say out loud.
Grief.
Longing.
Anger disguised as politeness.
A quiet confusion about who I was and where I fit. In my town, in my family, even in my own skin.
There were parts of me that didn’t seem welcome anywhere, so I carried them in silence.
Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know how else to survive.
I became fluent in avoidance. In minimising. In shrinking.
Smiling on the outside, while inside something was twisting tight.
Writing became the place I went when I needed somewhere to go.
A blank page doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t try to fix you.
It just listens. Patiently. Quietly. Without asking for a version of you that fits better.
Without asking for credentials. Or certainty. Or proof you’ve already healed.
It allows you to be in-process. In-between. In pieces.
