But I Am A Writer Now

Out of all the setbacks life forced me to endure, I never fought the battle of finding my voice.
I was treated with generosity in my creation, blessed with a second breath through writing when my lungs failed their duty to fill my cells with oxygen.

My hands naturally picked up the pen when I started journaling at the age of 7, exploring my mind which had always been its own universe. Entertaining myself with fantasies, wandering through scenes that shifted like silk, I’d travel between realms whenever this world didn’t have much to offer.

Although I’ve never been diagnosed with ADHD, I knew myself well enough to realise that my brain worked a little faster and a little sideways compared to everyone else’s. My idea of fun was often to trace back my thoughts, seeing which started the domino effect until my mind drifted somewhere above everything, wandering through whatever feels a bit miraculous in the moment, like how humans discovered fire in the first place.

It all felt complete in my mind, but never quite reached others the same way.

If someone asked me what kind of superpower I’d wish to have, I’d say,

“To transfer my train of thought through touch, exactly as I knew it, perfectly as I liked it.”
Every birthday candle I sacrificed to that went to waste.

Still, being an extravert cleared an easy way for me in social interactions. In every conversation, I knew how to meet the other person without effort. I won many hearts just by listening and asking the right questions. When my understanding arrived, my words carried resonance.

My words never rehearsed themselves, but that didn’t refrain me from being selective while I chose which ones to travel.
The shadow side of sociability was suppression.

The thoughts that were kept hidden found their home on paper, and that is how writing became my superpower. By allowing me to be in charge on the page, writing gave me a sense of control. I arranged my words, my sentences, in the way my mind wanted to transfer them, shaping each line until it felt safe enough to exist outside of me.

It didn’t change what I wanted to say, but in time it changed how I approached writing.

Perfectionism is what control looks like in action.

Control feels like power, and power reduces fear.
Yet the stakes become higher when you’re faced with the possibility of losing it.
The more I gained control, the more I felt fragile.

Suddenly, writing no longer felt like freedom, but something I had to get right, or risk losing it altogether.

I burned out, and I dedicate this post to all of you who are on the edge of experiencing something similar.
I could feel myself trading authenticity for numbers.

Losing my enthusiasm for the thing that once gave me the greatest pleasure, my life started feeling dull, and I kept saying I needed a win.

Yet, there was a time when a dear friend messaged me, saying that my writing showed him the strength he wasn’t aware he had while he was battling cancer.1

You could give me the Philosopher’s Stone that grants immortality, and I would still look the other way next to that.

In chasing more, I stopped seeing what I already had.
Until I found myself in a mansion full of strangers, which made me feel as if I had stepped into an Agatha Christie novel for a writing retreat this week.

I came here to learn structure, to refine my craft, to understand how to hold my words with more discipline while I returned to the same lines, trying to perfect them.

“Life is far more interesting than your plans,” said Dan Richards in one of his workshops.

His words landed like thunder striking the heart of the sea, making the sky, once covered in a dark blanket, brighten.

My writing never responded to pressure. It responded to purpose. Inspiration came from being fully inside my life, responding to it with such urgency that my words are no longer a choice, but a consequence.

Perfection never arrived, and the more I reached for it, the less alive the writing felt.

I left the last workshop session with frustration of not getting what I wanted, unaware that I was facing something far less tangible.

I now realise I was inspired by Dan far more than I thought, which explains why I felt so upset when I began to think he only saw me as a Substack writer.

I had been following a script for far too long, making my life feel redundant.

My plan was simple, yet profound:
“I am going to be a writer.”

Unaware that I was trading my own universe, that carried countless possibilities of wonder, to chase a future that was never promised.

Demanding an outcome doesn’t guarantee what life’s really supposed to be. Nothing in this world is reliable but the present.

Even if I gave it a million years of thought, I would have never guessed I would be diagnosed with Parkinson’s at the age of 25.
My hands may even become too shaky to write in the future.

Where intuition recalibrated, my fear revealed what mattered:
Who am I becoming while nothing is resolved?

The question has always been more powerful than the prophecy. It’s in uncertainty that we risk, that we grow, that we make choices no prophecy could ever predict.

Perhaps becoming was never about arriving at something new, but about undoing what convinced me I was incomplete.

I choose to stay and not rush for clarity.
Meaning is born from presence rather than performance, and it dissolves when met with forcefulness.

Maybe I will not become the writer I desperately want to be.

But I am a writer now.

Thanks for reading! If my words touched you, let them travel.