#writingthroughit

I'm a restaurant owner who everybody loves to come to. They eat, they chit-chat, they're having a good time with me. There were tables full of my friends, colleagues, colleagues who became best friends, family, and even myself but in different versions. They all look so happy. Some new people come, some old people leave, sometimes they come and go. But it doesn't matter because the restaurant is still full, alive, and people are happy.

Each table calls me to have a chit-chat with them. We shared laughs, cries, secrets, and they invited me to come to their restaurant. It's me dancing from one table to another. They're calling my name. I was so full of happiness. Even the table with other versions of myself mesmerizes me. They look fat haha, but they look happy and alive, with so much passion in their eyes.

That restaurant might be full of smiles, but they blind me. I don't realize that while I'm dancing here and there, behind my back, the visitors at each table are leaving the restaurant. Without me realizing it, they are gone. Alone, or someone has picked them up. For a while, I don't care. Whispering to myself, "hey, it's okay. People change. You still got a table with your people."

And one day, the restaurant has never been so quiet. I see the door sign—it says "OPEN," but no one comes. I look inside. There are only a few people left, tidying up their things, about to leave the restaurant. Even the people I once gave the best table with the best view. I’m begging them to stay. But the people who pick them up are stronger than me. Maybe they have a nicer restaurant, I think to myself.

Not long after, the restaurant is empty. Oh wait—the other version of me is still in the corner. I come to them, but they slowly disappear. But I don't care. I just watch them go. The "DOMMM" sound shocks me. It's part of the ceiling in my restaurant, which suddenly turns into an abandoned restaurant.

The tables are overturned, the decorations broken. No more light days, no more dancing from table to table, no more people calling my name to share stories, sadness, and secrets. Of course, the lamps are turning off.

I try to see outside from the window, screaming to invite people to come to my restaurant. But no one comes. It's just me, and the small TV that’s still on, trying to distract me from my sadness.

Yet, it's not a distraction.

On the screen, I can see my people, getting their lives moving forward. One gets married, one has kids, one gets engaged, one gets a promotion, one gets a new house—they all look so happy. I walk backward to the table that still hasn’t broken yet. Getting comfy in the corner.

I know, I know, I disappeared for a bit. Sorry, internet void. (｡•́︿•̀｡) It wasn’t intentional, I just got caught up chasing melodies and scribbling lines that somehow felt truer than anything I could say out loud. Writing songs became my little escape, a place where I could untangle the mess in my head and turn it into something that at least sounds beautiful.

The hours slipped away without me even realizing it. One moment I was strumming aimlessly, the next I had a half-finished chorus looping in my brain like a stubborn ghost. (¬‿¬) But there’s something addictive about it, the way words and chords collide to create a piece of me I didn’t even know existed.

Stepping back from everything else felt selfish at first, like I was abandoning the world just to hum to myself in the corner. But maybe that’s okay? Sometimes silence is the only way to hear what’s actually going on inside.

I missed writing here though. Talking into this vast digital nothingness, the internet void, feels like tossing paper airplanes into the night sky, hoping one lands somewhere. Even if no one catches them, at least they’re flying.

So here I am again, resurfacing, guitar still in hand, lyrics scribbled on scraps of paper scattered across my desk. If disappearing meant I could return with new stories, new melodies, then maybe it wasn’t really disappearing at all. (≧◡≦)

I've spent most of my life struggling to define myself, and to understand who I am and what I am supposed to be. I've landed in other people's expectations, in my own fears and doubts, and the quiet space where I am just. here, existing. There are things too big to put into words, so I say them here. This is where I don't have to explain. Where I can simply be.

I won’t burn these pages, even if they’re messy, confusing, or incomplete. These are the moments, the thoughts, the parts of me I’ve kept hidden, waiting for a place to belong.

Every now and then, you’re asked to write something that forces you to stop hiding. This is one of those moments.

Dear Creative Me,

You called yourself a failure once.

You said you destroyed two career paths—one by arrogance, one by fear—and that if you ruined a third, you wouldn’t know what would happen. You were scared. You still are.

But the truth is, you never stopped trying.

Even after disappointment turned into silence, and silence into shame, you kept writing. You built worlds when the real one felt too tight. You reshaped familiar stories because maybe if you could make sense of them, then you could make sense of yourself.

You’ve lied to your parents. You’ve blamed yourself for things that were never fully in your control. You’ve looked in the mirror and hated the reflection more times than you can count.

But in spite of all of that—you never let your creativity die.

It’s the one thing that remained yours. It wasn’t a job. It wasn’t for school. It wasn’t for them. It was the one voice you didn’t silence. The one part of you that didn’t cave in under the weight of expectations or regret.

You said you wanted to become someone new by January 28th, 2028. Not because you hate who you are—but because you believe there’s still something more in you. Something better. Something real.

Let this be the proof that you’re on your way.

This letter isn’t a finish line. It’s a checkpoint. A hand on your shoulder saying: keep going. You’ve faced worse and survived. Now it’s time to build something from those scars. Make stories from what you thought were endings. Make meaning from the mess.

You’re not too late.

You’re just getting started.

⸻ ✧ thoughts tonight ✧ ⸻ feeling unseen • motherhood & dreams • gentle reflection

I had a conversation with my husband that left me quieter than I expected. It started with something simple — a laptop. A tool, really. Something that could help me work from home, study, or write again while being with our baby. But the moment turned heavier when he said he wasn’t sure I’d actually use it.

I don’t think he meant to hurt me, but it did. Because in that moment, it felt like he couldn’t see how much I am trying. How much I juggle, even when I don’t have time to show it neatly.

It reminded me of how easy it is for people to overlook the small efforts — the ones that happen in between diaper changes, or while cooking dinner with one hand and typing notes with the other. The quiet moments where I’m dreaming of something more but can’t yet make it happen because my arms are full of love and responsibility.

Maybe it’s not really about the laptop. Maybe it’s about wanting to be believed in again — even when I stumble, even when things take longer than I hoped.

I know I’ve stopped and started things before, but that doesn’t make me incapable. It just means I’m human. I’m learning. And I’m still showing up, even when no one notices.

If anyone reading this has ever felt small for asking for something that could make their life a little easier — you’re not wrong for wanting it. You’re not lazy or unreliable or foolish for trying again. You’re just someone still fighting to believe in herself, even when the people closest to you forget how hard you’re trying.

And maybe that’s enough for tonight — to just keep trying.

Just taking a little more time to make sure it’s really ready. This book matters and I don’t want to rush it.

Thanks for your patience if you’ve been waiting. And if you’re just finding this now, welcome. More soon.

Where Wounds Rest

The office changes into an alcove tucked deep within the green hush of an old forest, safe and gentle as a Sunday morning dream.

She stands on the far side, quiet, back to me, grounded in the now, a guide to the maybe, knowing the art of drawing circles of safety where even old wounds can rest.

“Tell me what your body says,” she asks, turning, not meeting my gaze, just carrying the mystery of space between us.

Her familiar, sleepy, watches with one amber eye, as if they too, are part of the invitation to let the old ache settle to the roots below, to listen for what’s beneath.

The floor is not carpet, but earth, I can almost feel moss underfoot, soft as my breath, and as I sit, she waits at the periphery.

I listen for the first time to my own body’s weather, letting the spinning settle to a gentle thrum, trusting that the forest holds me even as I learn to hold myself.