How many times I picked up a pen and paper or my laptop in an attempt to write over the years. I doodled, wrote down anecdotes, made to-do lists, everything I could think of to somehow find my voice. Wanting to tell a story is one thing, but truly express yourself is like playing in a whole different league.

The story of how I lost my mother brings me in a very emotional state that led to writer’s block many times. It is like going back in time and being that little girl again. I feel her presence, I hear her voice, and for a split second I even smell the scarf around her neck or a vague scent of her hairspray. I close my eyes and try to picture her. Many times that led to me looking at photos in our family photo albums, which did not necessarily helped my writing process, but it did help me heal. By trying to put the words down I have been scratching open old wounds, putting a band aid on, and ripping it off only to scratch open old wounds again. Every step of the way I felt like climbing stairs; two steps up, one back down.. The process repeated itself endlessly, but progress emotionally and productivity wise became visible slowly.

I see light at the end of the tunnel now, because of all the warm words from the people that are supporting me, and because I almost feel like my voice is strong enough now to put it out there. It has been building up inside me for so long, I am finally close to ready to share it with the world. My emotions don’t stop me from writing anymore. The story was always there, I just had to find the strength to put it into words.


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