Reflection:
Some people speak to be heard. I write to be understood—even by myself. My feelings are not always clear, not always welcome, but they are honest. They rise without apology, and when I write them, I find freedom—even in confusion.
Poem:
There are days when I write without warning.
When the pen becomes an ache,
and the ache becomes a voice.
I write about my feelings—
not because I understand them,
but because they refuse to remain silent.
They rise like incense from places I didn’t know were wounded.
A glance from a child who expected more than I could offer.
The trembling stillness after news of war.
The unspoken forgiveness in the way my mother folded my clothes.
My feelings do not ask permission.
They arrive mid-sentence,
demanding I make room
for joy and sorrow to sit beside each other—
laughing and crying like old friends.
