Sometimes, when words get stuck in my throat or my heart feels too full, writing is the only thing that helps me breathe. Writing has become much more than a hobby or a creative tool: it has been a form of silent therapy in times when everything seemed to be shaky.
Writing brought back my rhythm during the pandemic when the world outside felt uncertain and the days felt similar. It was my way of naming what I was feeling, letting go of fear, and reminding myself that I wasn't alone. I also wrote myself a refuge while writing about recipes, routines, or emotions.
And then there's migration, that process that changes your country and your insides—leaving everything behind, starting from scratch, learning a new language, rebuilding an identity—things that aren't always said out loud. Writing allowed me to understand what I felt before I could express it with spoken words. It was my way of processing invisible grief and also celebrating small achievements.
Another important chapter has been my journey through fertility. Although it has often been marked by silence, writing permitted me to feel it all: hope, frustration, exhaustion, faith. Some emotions can't always be easily shared with others, but they can find freedom on a blank page.
I don't write to find answers but to accompany myself on the journey. It has helped me look more compassionately at my stages and make space for everything I sometimes want to keep deep inside.
Writing has taught me I don't need everything resolved to tell my story. That even on gray days, I can write with light. And if that light, however small, can also accompany someone else, then every word has been worth it.
