my first memories of joy were rooted in the love of stories. libraries were a sanctuary, books were my safe place, and writing was actual magic.

at first, it was the fantastical delight of staying up too late reading, in the dark and under covers, falling asleep, unaware. the strange continuum waking up physically and diving back into the story where i was already mentally waiting. this perpetual loop of wonder and displacement, all day, every day.

then, it was the thrill of a trip to the library; i can still map each leafy route. most vividly, is the sound of the door sliding effortlessly open, welcoming me to the endless possibility in the shelves of books and their ancient musty smell.

then, the jubilation when my parents said, this time, I could take home the brand-new shiny book i was holding in the store. it didn’t have to go back – this book could be mine, forever.

but the real joy, the joy that reaches the deepest depths of my being, was when a butterfly of a thought landed in my mind and enlivened me by driving an idea from thought to paper.

reading was my oasis, but when i started creating my own stories, i was finding happiness, strength and safety within myself.

there is a freedom in childhood that allows us to discover, connect and become who we are. children are unburdened by inhibitions and expectations; they are protected by unconditional love. every day they live for their joy and want.

as i grew up, my vulnerabilities were exposed, tested and traumatised. i was doused relentlessly in the failure of responsibilities and expectations i didn’t understand. i was kneaded with comparison, opinions and judgement, into a monster of insecurity.

i’ve been lost so many times and become different versions of myself, but never been whole. the creativity was eternally bubbling, sometimes brewing, but never complete. there was something missing, and always lacking enough essence of truth, organic magic and pure love.

this is breaking free and taking control. opening my heart to loving myself and living free. to own myself, is to find my voice through my fingers and on the page. i would rather explode and scatter like stars in the universe, than implode like ash and nothing that ever mattered.

so, i welcome the tide and i’m rushing into the ocean, heart first. the water is cold and jarring, but not uninviting. i feel it shoot through my bones, muscles and skin like electricity.

I declare myself fearless; i am affirm myself a writer, so i can feel complete in all my identities and live a life that is whole. today, i write myself into existence.