I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body

It's not the crying It's not the flashbacks It's not even the grief

It's realizing how many years you spent introducing people to a version of you that was trying to survive

Then one day you wake up and the mask doesn't fit anymore.

The laugh sounds different The music sounds different The things you tolerated start making your skin crawl.

You miss people you shouldn't. You outgrow people you once needed. You look in the mirror and recognize yourself for three seconds before the feeling disappears again

Healing isn't becoming someone new

It's meeting the person trauma interrupted

And sometimes that meeting is awkward as hell

From I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now

the drywall remembered for me

tiny fractures spreading like maps of everywhere i never breathed out loud

i kept replaying the footage in my head

same impact, different angle

wondering which frame held the exact second a heartbeat learned to whisper

trauma isn’t an event trapped in the past

it’s the nervous system refusing to forget

has been recording

is recording

will record

until one day you press stop with a shaking finger

i didn’t survive by erasing the tape

i survived by hitting play in daylight

letting every alarm sound until it tired itself out

until the room could hold silence without accusation

this book is that playback

no soundtrack

no cinematic fade

just the raw audio of a body remembering itself

in a language louder than fear

if you’ve ever felt a flashback in your bones

before it reached your mind

come sit with the evidence

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now

there was no sky-sized miracle here just a girl in a dorm room pulling the stitches she’d learned to call personality

every paragraph costs a night of sleep every chapter drags one more ghost into daylight none of them leave politely

this isn’t the tidy version of healing it’s the part where your hands shake while you keep typing anyway because silence has started to feel like complicity

if you’ve ever perfected the smile that ends a conversation while carrying a storm behind your teeth these pages will feel like weather you finally recognize

open them carefully there’s still smoke between the lines

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now

i used to call it “moving on” turns out it was just moving around same ache, different room

every time i laughed too loud or shrank to fit the furniture another version of me was taking notes, waiting for the moment i’d grow quiet enough to hear her ask if this was living or just rehearsing

the pages you’re about to open are not safe décor they’re what happened when i decided to stop tidying survival into poetry and write the mess down as it is

if you’ve ever looked composed while something inside you kept pacing welcome home

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body isn’t a soft landing it’s proof i didn’t disappear for nothing

I wrote myself back into this body out now on Amazon

you are holding the MRI of a soul mid-scan

one page still flinches when you touch it another exhales like it’s been waiting years

this is the quiet part of the story where you realise the main character has been running with something inside her and calling it normal

i didn’t write this to sound brave i wrote it because the silence was getting heavy

if you’ve ever rehearsed other people’s lines until they sounded like home you’ll feel this

the ending isn’t gentle but it’s honest enough to stand on

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body Out Now :)

I kept finding fragments a laugh that never reached my eyes a pair of shoes that walked stadium laps through insomnia a voice that told the story the family preferred

I tried to bury them in fresh calendars pressed petals of new routines over the bruise renamed the ache ambition and let it win awards

But every night the house went still and the hallway lights hummed like a lie that’s when they crept out the versions of me that refused to stay dead the soft spoken one still searching for quiet the loud one still begging to be heard the detached one still hovering at the ceiling counting heartbeats like footsteps to an exit

I thought healing would feel like rebirth it felt more like an audit every ghost laying its paperwork on the table every false glow stripped back to wiring every borrowed sentence crossed out until the only language left was the tremor in my own handwriting

I am not new I’m what’s left after the burning and what’s left is honest enough

If you’ve ever tried to evict versions of yourself only to meet them in the mirror at 3am you already know the address of these pages

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now

I kept every version of me on the shelf the girl who never spoke loud enough the one who spoke too loud the one who smiled through panic the one who stopped smiling at all

Last night I opened every notebook scratched out the borrowed sentences left only the sound my own bones make when I say yes to staying

This isn’t a glow up or a phoenix cliché

It’s housekeeping It’s throwing out clothes that still smell like smoke It’s bleaching the fingerprints off the mirror until the stranger leaves

If you’ve ever tried to scrub survival off your skin these pages might feel like home

I Wrote myself back into this body out now

When I said I was “driven” what I meant was I kept outrunning the sirens in my chest long enough for you to call it success

I wore deadlines like earplugs I let praise drown out the quiet that made my pulse race

Ambition is just another name for escape that’s learned to dress too well

It smiles for photos answers emails before sunrise keeps moving so the memory can’t catch up

And then one night the calendar goes silent the applause echoes back empty and you finally feel what you’ve been carrying

That’s not burnout

That’s the part of you that never stopped screaming being heard

If this feels like a mirror the rest of it is still breathing inside the pages of I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body

Not a happy ending just the truth of what happens when the chase ends and the body asks for its life back

i wrote myself back into this body out now

I don’t want a big life

I want a life that recognizes me

a room that does not ask me to shrink

a conversation that does not make me edit myself

a love that does not feel like something I have to earn

I want to walk into my own life

and not feel like a guest

I wrote myself back into this body out now :)

what if the traits people praised in you

were not your personality

but your adaptations

the silence the people pleasing the overthinking the ability to read a room before you entered it

the way you apologized before you knew what you had done wrong

the way you mistook being needed for being loved

the way you learned to become easier to carry than easier to know

what if the parts of you everyone called mature

were simply the parts that hurt least to keep around

and what if healing is not becoming someone new

but meeting the person who was there before survival started answering for them

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body Out Now

I just did not have it yet

so I called it love personality bad luck my fault

I called it growing up being dramatic trying my best overthinking again

and because I did not have the language

I kept building a life around it

that is the quiet tragedy of surviving without words

you do not know what to leave

until the right name arrives

and suddenly what felt like fate

becomes something you are allowed to stop carrying

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now :)

I did not come back to myself glowing

I came back suspicious tired halferal and unsure which parts of me were actually mine

healing did not feel like becoming soft

it felt like pulling my own name out of the mouth of everything that tried to use it

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body Out Now

I used to think being present meant staying in the room

but I have learned there are quieter ways to leave

you can answer you can laugh you can nod at the right time

and still be somewhere no one knows how to reach

that is the kind of absence people forgive because it does not disturb them

the kind that looks like maturity like peace like finally doing better

but sometimes what looks like peace is only the body making itself easier to survive

and I think that is why coming back feels so violent

not because you are becoming new

but because for the first time in a long time

you are refusing to remain conveniently gone

I wrote myself back into this body out now :)

the cruelest part was not that it happened

it was that my body kept proof

in places no one could see

in my shoulders in my sleep in the way I read silence like a warning

in the way a normal room could become dangerous just because my body recognized the shape of waiting

people think trauma lives in memory

but sometimes it lives in the pause before someone speaks

in the sound of a door closing

in the sudden need to explain yourself before you have done anything wrong

it lives where language arrives late

where the mind says you are safe now

and the body answers

prove it

i wrote myself back into this body out now

just because the danger left does not mean the body got the message

the war can be over and still be living in the nervous system

just because the room is quiet does not mean the mind has put its weapons down

some bodies leave survival mode later than the danger leaves the room

the threat ended the body did not believe it

just because no one is hurting you now does not mean your mind has stopped preparing for impact

the doors can be locked and the body will still stand guard

peace is not always hard because it is absent

sometimes it is hard because the body still treats it like a trick

the danger left first my body took longer

you can survive the war and still carry its posture into every quiet room after

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body out now