Rediscovering My Voice

A Writer's Journey Through Escapism, Healing, and A Whole Lot of Chaos

I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. My first short story came out in the third grade—a cute little tale that had my teacher buzzing like she’d discovered the next literary prodigy. Bless her for that. Honestly, I think she just loved the enthusiasm, but who cares? The spark was lit, and I was off, pen in hand and head in the clouds. By the time I was 13, I had banged out my first novel. A whole damn novel. Was it good? Probably not. Was it a masterpiece in my eyes? Absolutely.

Writing became my lifeline, my escape, my way to dance around reality like a ballerina on a minefield. I’d lose myself in those stories, weave little worlds where I could control the chaos—unlike the real world, where life loved to kick me in the shins just for fun. Somewhere along the line, though, my passion for writing turned into a frantic sprint from my own trauma. I’d dive deeper into these imaginary worlds, hiding from the mess in my head. But while the stories were plentiful, they were also a hot mess—like me. Scatterbrained, unfocused, trying to be everything at once and ending up more lost than ever.

It’s funny, you think you can outrun yourself, but eventually, you hit a wall. My ideas became like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle from five different boxes. Nothing fit together, and I’d find myself staring at the page, wondering where the hell my brain had wandered off to. And trust me, it went far.

For years, it felt like I was thrashing around in a dark pool, gasping for air, trying to grab onto anything that would bring me back to that place of creative clarity. But trauma’s like an old, ugly sweater—scratchy, uncomfortable, and no matter how deep you bury it in the closet, it always finds its way back. It’s only when I decided to stop running and actually face my mess that things started to change. I mean, really look at it, ugly sweater and all.

I began to untangle the knots, slowly but surely. I stopped trying to force my stories to be something they weren’t and started asking myself, "What the hell do I actually want to say?" Not for everyone else, but for me. What did I need to get out?

Turns out, quite a lot.

It wasn’t an easy process—more like slowly peeling off a band-aid that’s been stuck on too long. But with every layer I pulled back, my stories started to form again. Not the way I imagined when I was that kid with stars in my eyes, but better. Richer. With all the ugly, beautiful complexities that come from actually living, screwing up, healing, and starting over. I found a new voice—a deeper one, still with that wild spirit, but now it had something to say.

So, here I am, on the cusp of publishing my first book. It’s not just a book; it’s my victory flag. I’m saying, “Look, I did it. I dug through all the crap, sorted it out, and turned it into something worth sharing.” I’ve been on this ride my whole life, and I’m just getting started.

Here’s to embracing the chaos, facing the shadows, and writing our way out of them. And maybe, just maybe, finding a little bit of ourselves in the process.

And if you’re down for a wild ride, stick around—because the best stories are the ones we’re yet to write