03/08/2025
They Call Me Emotional…
Writing is my therapy. It’s not a cliché for me—it’s
a discipline, a devotion, a lifeline. When the world
becomes too loud, too fast, too fragmented, I return
to the page. Some people go to a room with four
walls and talk to someone in a chair. I do that too,
but often my chair is empty, and the listener is the
paper. Writing is one of the most encouraged tools
in therapy, and yet some still treat it as something
strange when it’s made public. There’s nothing
weird about it—nothing shameful about
transforming pain into something readable, maybe
even beautiful.
People have asked me—sometimes curiously, other
times with veiled judgment—“How are you so
comfortable sharing all this? Don’t you feel exposed?”
I don’t rant. I don’t need to overshare for attention.
I write deliberately. With clarity. With intent. So let
me answer you plainly.
First, it’s my life. If I choose to open the blinds and
let the light in, that’s my choice. If it makes you
uncomfortable, you’re free to close the book or scroll past. No one’s holding your eyes open. But
some choose to stay and read—and for them,
maybe a line or two strikes a nerve, or heals one.
Second, as you’ve said yourself, I’m not alone in
these experiences. People are walking through
shadows every day, pretending they’re in the sun.
When they read my words and find someone
speaking what they couldn’t articulate, something
shifts. That moment of resonance, that’s powerful.
That’s why I write out loud.
Third, this is my story—not polished or pretty, but
mine. I’ve lived it, endured it, and now I’m
reshaping it. I use my platform not for spectacle,
but for release. I don’t owe anyone silence.
And lastly—this is the heart of it—I am a writer. A
poet. An artist. And I have grown. I’ve earned the
right to claim my voice, to share what I create, and
to do so without shame. My pen is not your
permission slip. You can’t stop me from making art
out of ache.
