Nobody Sent Me, But I’m Here

Every time I sit down to write, my brain be like, “Lmao, you? Talking? Advising? With your life?” And honestly, fair. Because what business do I have putting words together when everything around me is barely holding up? But somehow, I keep doing it. Not because I have it all figured out, but because writing is the only thing that has ever let me exist properly.

I don’t like talking sometimes. Not because I don’t have things to say, but because my thoughts scatter like spilled liquid if I’m not careful. One minute, I’m making a point, the next, I’m knee-deep in an unrelated rant about life, capitalism, and why cold noodles are a crime against humanity. But writing? Writing lets me sit with my thoughts long enough to make sense of them. It lets me say things the way I actually mean them, without losing my own thread.

And the truth? There’s nothing polished or poetic about the way things have unfolded for me. Life is a mess. A beautiful, complicated, sometimes unbearable mess. But that’s exactly why I have to write. Because if I’ve been through all this and still found a way to keep going, then maybe someone else needs to hear that it’s possible. Maybe someone, somewhere, needs words that hold space for them—whether to feel seen, to laugh for a second, or just to know they’re not alone.

The thing about pain is, it isolates. It makes you feel like nobody else could possibly understand what you’re carrying. But words? They bridge that gap. They remind us that even when life hands you the kind of losses that not everyone can relate to, someone, somewhere, has felt something close. And that realization? It does something. Those tears hit different when you know you’re not alone—that this tide won’t take you under. It’s a tear with a sigh of relief, not just grief. The kind that loosens the band around your chest when someone, somewhere, puts the unspeakable into words, calling out the shadows that have been threatening to consume you.

So yeah, I don’t always know why I’m doing this. Half the time, I feel like I should shut up and mind my business. But I’ll still show up. I’ll still write. Even if it’s just to remind myself that I can. Because what if someone, somewhere, needs to read it?

And if not? At least I’ve said my piece.