I wasn’t supposed to be a writer. There were things I couldn’t say, questions I didn’t dare ask, and wishes too fragile to speak aloud. So, I wrote—not to be heard, but to keep the peace. At eight, I learned the power of words when no one else was listening. Bullied and alone, I couldn’t find my voice, but the pages never turned away. They held me, even with shaky hands and misspelled words. I wrote through everything—joys, sorrows, and moments too heavy to speak.
I wasn’t supposed to be a writer, but ink found its way into my hands. A book appeared, filled with pieces of me I couldn’t share any other way. Even after all these years, I’m still writing. I stopped once, but silence never suited me. The words always find their way back. And so here I am, pen in hand, letting them speak for me.

People always ask me, "Why are you so quiet?" Like silence is something to be fixed, as if my stillness is an empty space that needs filling. But I’ve seen so many speak just for the sake of being heard, their words crashing over each other, but saying nothing at all. I’m not quiet because I don’t have thoughts—I’m quiet because I carry them carefully. Every word holds weight, and I won’t waste it on things that don’t matter.
I listen more than I speak, not because I’m afraid, but because I know the world is already so loud. There’s something beautiful in the silence, in the moments between words, where the real truths are hiding.
I don’t need to shout to be seen. I don’t need noise to prove I exist. I’m not invisible—I’m present, grounded, and whole. One day, when everything slows down and the noise fades, they’ll hear me. And they’ll realize I was never quiet; they just weren’t listening.

You ask how I feel, if I’m okay, and honestly… I never really know how to answer that. Do any of us? Feelings are messy, tangled, hard to explain—sometimes, I don’t even know what I feel. Or maybe I do, but I don’t think you’d understand. So I say, I’m okay. It’s the safest answer, the one that doesn’t invite more questions, the one that keeps me from having to spill things I’m not ready to say. Because how do you explain the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix? Or the weight you carry but can’t put down? How do you talk about things that don’t have solutions? It’s easier to keep it inside, between me and God, because at least God listens without asking me to explain. But sometimes, I wonder—do you really want to know? If I told you I’m exhausted, would you still see me the same way? Would you try to fix what can’t be fixed? Or would you just sit with me in it? Maybe that’s all I really need. But instead, I just say, I’m okay. And hope you don’t ask again.