Why I Write (Even Though I Swore I Wouldn’t)

Let’s get one thing straight: I did not plan to be a writer.

If you had asked me as a kid if I wanted to spend my life crafting stories, I would have laughed in your face—loudly, dramatically, probably with an eye-roll for emphasis. Writing? No, thanks. That was for sensitive, dreamy types. And where I grew up, creativity was basically a liability. You either built an armor of toughness, or you got crushed. So, I built the armor.

I was the rebel. The badass. The one who didn’t need anyone and definitely wasn’t sitting in the corner building her perfect world l into a notebook. Nope. Not me.

Except… yeah, that was exactly me.

By day, I was outgoing, fearless, impossible to intimidate. The girl who could handle anything. But by night? I was scribbling down stories, writing lyrics like my life depended on it, creating worlds where I could actually feel things without consequence. No one knew. Because if they did, they might think I was soft. And I couldn’t have that, could I?

So, I wrote in secret. Journals, notebooks, napkins—anything I could get my hands on. I wrote about things I couldn’t say out loud, feelings I pretended didn’t exist, thoughts I wasn’t supposed to have. And when emotions got too intense, I turned them into song lyrics. Late at night, I’d sit with my notebook, crafting melodies in my head, pouring my heart into words no one would ever hear, sketching art in secret. And all of this listening to music as loud as my headphones could go. It was my therapy, my escape, my lifeline.

And then I stopped. Someone in my family found my notebooks... and they read some of it. So I decided, no more. I was 14 at the time.

But here’s the thing about pretending to be something you’re not—it doesn’t last. No matter how hard I tried to bury my creativity under layers of “I-don’t-care” energy, it kept creeping back. My brain needed stories. I couldn’t function without them. And I started again.

I never really learned how to ask for help or admit when I was struggling. Vulnerability isn't exactly on my to-do list. But writing? That’s where I let it all out.

When life felt out of control, I wrote worlds where I was in charge. When I felt alone, I created characters who understood. When I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling, I let my pen do the talking.

Even now, writing is my safe space. It’s where I go when my thoughts are too loud, when emotions feel too heavy, when reality just doesn’t make sense. And honestly? It’s the best coping mechanism I’ve got. A totally recommended therapy.

Writing is part of me, whether I like it or not. It’s how I process the world, how I make sense of the chaos, how I breathe when everything feels suffocating. It’s the only place where I don’t have to be the tough one, the strong one, the one who has it all figured out.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s not such a bad thing.

Because at the end of the day, writing gives me something nothing else ever could: A place to be me. No armor. No act. Just raw, unfiltered, unapologetic storytelling.