07/02/2025
It hits different when the very thing you were made fun of for becomes the very thing people now admire you for.
And I’ll keep saying this, even if it makes me sound like a broken record.
Since I was young, words have always been my passion. Writing has always been my most natural form of self-expression. I was captivated early on by how literature explores the complexities of the human experience. Influenced by the introspective poetry of Emily Dickinson and the haunting prose of Edgar Allan Poe, my early work focused on emotional depth and resilience.
At twelve, I dove headfirst into Shakespeare’s Hamlet, completely absorbed by its layered characters and emotional turmoil. Acting out the play helped me understand them—not just as characters, but as people. It taught me how to write emotional restraint, layered pain, and internal conflict.
I’ve always been drawn to stories that mean something—stories that provoke thought and stir feeling. Stories that capture the full spectrum of what it means to be human, from joy and bliss to sorrow and melancholy.
That said, growing up, my writing always came from a deeper place. It was emotional, raw, and deeply personal. It’s how I processed the things I couldn’t say out loud. But instead of being understood, I was labeled.
“Too intense.”
“Too dark.”
“Too weird.”
Too much.
I was called a freak. I was called suicidal. I was even told to kill myself—simply because of the realms I explored, the shadows I unraveled, and the emotions I poured onto the page. My words made people uncomfortable—not because they were wrong, but because they were real.
Unless it was something generic like a school newspaper article or a flashy class presentation, my writing wasn’t respected. People liked my creativity when it made them look good—PowerPoints, photography, design work. But when it came to my personal writing? That’s when the bullying hit the hardest.
And now?
I’m sitting in a full-circle moment that honestly leaves me speechless.
Because now, writers—most of whom don’t even know me personally—are coming to me for help. Some reached out after I made a simple post in writing groups, just offering to help. And they answered. Then there are the ones who do know me. They were the ones who saw me for who I was long before anyone else did. Who supported my voice, my creativity, my vision—when others ignored or mocked it. Then some were brought to me by my publisher, Louis—who never stops ranting about how amazing I am (bless him for that).
But also can I be real for a minute?
My whole life, I’ve carried the weight of everything people said to tear me down. And I need to say this loud and clear:
There’s a big difference between constructive criticism and just being cruel.
Look, I know everyone’s got opinions. And hey—opinions are like as****es. We all have one. That’s fine. I’m not saying you have to love everything I write. I’m not even saying you have to agree with the themes I explore or the way I tell my stories.
But what I am saying is this:
Don’t disguise disrespect as “feedback.”
Don’t come at me with hate dressed up like help.
If you don’t like the genre, the topic, or the emotional depth I lean into—that’s your taste, not my failure.
I’m always open to thoughts, insight, and suggestions on how to grow as a writer. Hell, I ask for it. I welcome it. But don’t confuse that with me accepting garbage disguised as critique. I know the difference. And I’m not here to coddle someone’s ego just because my writing goes too deep, too raw, or too real for their comfort.
And no—this isn’t coming from a place of arrogance. I’m not trying to sound cocky, pig-headed, or like I think I’m better than anyone. But when you’ve bled on the page, turned trauma into truth, and fought to finally own your voice? It’s not easy to sit quietly while someone tears you down just because they can’t create the way you do.
And on the other side of that?
Because of those same traumatic experiences growing up…
I still don’t know how to handle compliments.
Even now—whether it’s my mom, my friends, my husband, my publisher, or anyone else—I get awkward when someone praises me. I shrink. I shut down. I start second-guessing: “Really? Me? Are you sure?”
It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do—deeply.
But it’s still so foreign that my first instinct is to flinch—like I don’t know how to accept kindness.. I get quiet. I overthink. I’ll mutter a thank-you, and then spiral into:
“Why would they say that?”
“Do they mean it?”
“Are they just being nice?”
Someone recently told me that’s called imposter syndrome. And yeah... that tracks.
For so long, I wasn’t seen. And if I was seen, it was in the worst possible way. I learned to associate attention with pain. So even now, when the spotlight is warm and kind—it still burns a little.
But I’m trying to unlearn that.
I’m trying to let the good things in—even if they still feel too big for me to hold.
And the part that truly wrecks me—in the best possible way—is this:
Most of these people don’t know me from Tom, Dick, or Harry. They don’t owe me anything. They don’t have to listen to my opinions or trust my suggestions.
But they do.
They not only listen—they respect it. They hear my thoughts, take them seriously, and they even use them. Not because I demanded it. But because they chose to. Because they saw value in something that, for so long, others tried to tear down.
And no—I’m not saying I’m the reason their stories shine. Their words would’ve stood strong on their own without me. But the fact that I get to be even a small part of their process?
That’s surreal.
That’s humbling.
That’s healing.
Words have always been my passion. Writing has always been my lifeline. And for the longest time, it felt like no one saw that but me.
But because of these moments—this is what defines me as a writer.
This is what made me who I am.
Without those painful experiences—the ridicule, the alienation, the loneliness—I might not have become this version of a writer: one who writes from the gut, the grief, and the ghost of every moment I couldn’t speak aloud.
So yeah. This hits different.
If you’ve ever been made to feel like your art is “too much”—don’t shrink.
Don’t dull your edges.
Don’t water yourself down for people who only drink from shallow cups.
Keep writing.
Keep creating.
Keep being too emotional, too intense, too dark, too real.
Because one day, someone will not only hear you…
They’ll thank you—for saying what they never could.
💬✍️💫
