Some days, I forget how to be human. That’s when I need to touch grass—literally. Not poetically. Not ironically. Just to remember I have a body. Not in a soft-lit, aesthetic way, but in the desperate sense of needing to return to something real. Something alive. My brain short-circuits. My emotions scramble. I forget how to hold a conversation. I become something like a robot: programmed to understand emotions but unable to process them.
Enjoying my own company wasn’t a preference. It was a default setting. A skill I mastered because I had no choice. People love to romanticise that kind of solitude—like it’s a quiet, graceful act. But I know what it is. It’s what you have left when no one picks you. When the invitations stop coming. When your presence isn’t asked for, so you pretend you prefer it that way. Over time, I built a life around it. Now, my space feels sacred. And letting people in? That feels like letting chaos walk with shoes over a temple floor.
Creativity and perception—they’re tangled. People don’t see me beyond “the writer.” That’s the whole identity. “Oh, she writes.” As if that explains me. As if that is me. It’s a box, not a mirror. And so, when I talk about big dreams or ambitions, I feel the doubt before it even reaches me. It arrives in the form of polite silence, fake gasps, and overused emojis. I hear their hesitation even when they’re typing hearts.
There are all kinds of people around me. The quiet cheerleaders. The loud affirmers. And the ones who join in on the condescending remarks—not because they believe them, but because it’s easier to mock than to defend. They leech onto the skepticism and package it as realism. They call this—this thing I do—“just a hobby.” A phase. A side quest.
I try to stay unaffected. I say I don’t need anyone’s approval. And that’s true. But here’s the part I rarely say: it’s not always rage I carry—it’s disappointment. Not even the fiery, explosive kind. No. The kind that settles like dust after a collapse. The kind that creeps in when your expectations are already on the floor, and someone still manages to dig a little lower. That kind of disappointment? It’s harder to clean up than anger. It lingers in the corners of my creativity. It echoes in my silences.
There’s a canyon-sized gap between who I am and who I want to be. And on some days, it feels like I’ll never bridge it. Almost. Almost. Because giving up would kill me faster than failure. I can exist in the pit, sure. But I won’t build a home there. That’s never been who I am. Even when my voice is shaking, I keep writing. That’s the one thing I’ve never questioned.
But when it comes to expressing myself in real life? It’s like I’ve deleted the setting. I erased it the first time no one heard me. And now, it’s just muscle memory. I hold things in. I swallow sharp thoughts. Not because I don’t feel them—but because someone once told me that my essays were too personal. And I listened. I shrank. I embarrassed myself for feeling.
Imagine telling a writer their work is too personal. It took me years to unlearn that shame. For someone who holds words sacred, every word spoken to me sticks. It’s not about being sensitive—it’s about reverence. My love for language makes every sentence matter.
I live between maybes and what ifs. I still walk on eggshells in places I once danced barefoot. And it’s not always obvious. It’s in the way I hesitate before replying too fast in group chats—worried that I’ll seem too eager, too available. Like I once was. Before I was treated like a welcome mat. Before I understood how dangerous softness can be in the wrong rooms.
Even in writing—especially in writing—I walk a tightrope. When I create something sharp, morally twisted, intense, I get the same reaction: “Omg how can this girl write something like this?” The implication being that cruelty on paper must mean cruelty in real life. That fiction is a confession.
Bruh. It’s fiction. I can do whatever I want.
Pushing limits is the point. I enjoy being the morally corrupted mastermind. I don’t bother calling it “morally grey.” There’s no grey here. Just freedom. I write to stretch myself—and you, the reader—into uncomfortable places. If that makes you flinch, good. It means I did something real.
I’ve always wanted to be loud. To be unbothered. To be that version of myself who feels deeply and doesn’t apologise for it. But I’ve been taught to shrink. To make myself digestible. Palatable. To soften my language. To dim my emotions. To not be “too much.” For what? For whom?
No one has ever looked at me and seen someone beyond “the writer.” No one has ever cared to look past the label. Not once. Not even a little. No one has ever said, “She’s just a girl who feels deeply. Who is extremely, undeniably chalant in a nonchalant world.” Maybe because it’s easier to place me in a frame than to witness the whole painting.
I think the worst part is how invisibility coexists with performance. You can be fully present and still feel erased. You can write something magnificent, close the laptop, and walk away like it didn’t happen. Because who would care? Who would understand what it took out of you? There’s no audience for private victories.
Sometimes I write something brilliant—then close the laptop like it never happened. Walk away from my own magnificence like it was nothing. Shrink myself into digestible pieces to be less… inconvenient. I don’t remember a single piece I’ve written that I’ve truly celebrated. I downplay the fire even before it catches. Some part of me says, “No one will care.” Another part whispers, “But don’t I deserve to be seen?”
I want to live in the version of myself that is unfiltered. Bold. Loud, even obnoxious, when it comes to feeling the feels. Like, I don’t want to apologise for crying at perfume commercials or talking about the moon like it personally betrayed me. Let me be extra. I earned it. My highest feminine self. A walking goddess with honey in her veins and chaos in her eyes. But right now? I’m held back by a lot. Some things I’ve named. Others I can’t yet look at directly.
And at night, it all comes back. I lie down and suddenly remember every person who forgot me. Every moment I didn’t speak up. It’s not just loneliness—it’s the awareness of it. The kind that makes sleep feel like abandonment. The bed becomes too big, even when I’m curled into the smallest version of myself. And just when I think I’m okay—my brain slips into existential dread. My good mood? It never lasts beyond twenty minutes. Maybe I’m just dehydrated. Or underfed. Or spiralling. Jury’s still out.
But here’s what I do know: I’m done shrinking. I’m done editing myself for palatability. I’m done walking on eggshells and calling it grace. Writing is the only place I don’t apologise for existing exactly as I am.
Touching grass is survival. But the radical act? That’s choosing to stay. Choosing to speak. Choosing to write like no one’s watching—then daring to show it anyway.
Touching grass brings me back to earth. Writing? That’s what sets me on fire.