Writing Was My First Way to Scream

I didn’t grow up with a quiet mind.

Writing wasn’t something I planned to do—it was something I had to do.

At first, I didn’t even realize I was “writing.” I was just putting thoughts down because my chest felt heavy, or my head was too loud. Sometimes it looked like stories. Sometimes it was scribbled prayers. Sometimes it was just survival.

My Parents Weren’t Writers — But They Were Readers.

My mom would lay out in the sun, legs crossed, nose in a paperback.

She loved old-school romance.

Cowboys. Tragic love. The kind that made you ache a little before it made you feel better.

My dad?

He’d be piled up in bed, lights low, reading Stephen King like scripture.

If it was twisted, he was finishing it in one night.

They separated when I was young.

But both of them, in their own ways, taught me what stories could do.

They could scare you. Save you. Or help you feel something you thought you lost.

Writing Became My Calm. Then My Escape.

I grew up around certain types of abuse from some of my mom’s boyfriends and husbands.

I didn’t have a safe space.

But I had a notebook.

When my mind started slipping into places I didn’t want to go, I grabbed a pen.

When I felt like I couldn’t speak it, I’d write it.

Even now—when I feel off, lost, triggered, or just heavy—I come back to the page.

Because the page doesn’t judge.

It holds.

It listens.

This Is Why I Still Write.

Because some stories need to be told.

Because some wounds don’t heal until they’re put into words.

Because sometimes, you have to see your pain in print to finally let it go.

This isn’t just writing.

It’s a lifeline.

It’s a way home.

It’s how I remember… and how I survive.

To the Ones Who Feel This Too:

If you’ve ever found comfort in a pen, or silence in a sentence—

you’re not alone here.

And you never were.