One day I joined a writing class recommended by my friend.
I knew I could write, but something else was missing—
I had no voice.
I was stuck in a rut, I couldn’t fully embrace the gift of words I was given.
Old fears came creeping back to haunt me—I wasn’t good enough because nobody told me I was.
Nobody told me I was loved.
But within this circle of phenomenal women, I felt alive.
I clustered, I doubted myself, I pushed my right brain to its limits, and I put pen to paper—
word after word filling up with conviction, with confidence, with clarity.
I found my voice.
I felt myself grow in Ms. Tweetums’ writing class, in this warm cocoon of wise women who welcomed me.
What does the future hold for me?
I don’t know what to expect, but I’ll let every day surprise me.
I know now that I don’t have to pretend to be someone I am not.
For years, I’ve been trying to repress myself, not realizing that the best version of me
is just allowing space to be myself, to feel more snug in my own skin.
That it’s my birthright to shine and create magic out of the ordinary.
Not everyone is meant to go on the same road.
I have the power to choose, be at the helm of my own ship.
I will follow my heart wherever it leads me to.
I want to make my own rules and follow or break them at will.
I don’t want to feel embarrassed that I haven’t been kissed yet nor kissed a lover back.
I want to share my life with someone worthy—who can handle my passions, accept me quirks and all, and makes space for my brilliance beside their own.
I want to laugh with abandon more often and smile at strangers.
I want to twilight and gaze at sunsets familiar and foreign.
I want a small, bright house filled with books and a garden.
I want a simple, quiet life brimming with love and light.
I am a cat, the color yellow, dreams of raspberries, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, a Vestal virgin, a constant pilgrim, the Star in tarot, a modern Bildungsroman, a writer.
I am a phenomenal woman.
And I continue to build a home for myself.