I dare to call myself a writer, even though I’ve never published a single word yet.
My notebooks are full of worlds no one has ever seen, poems, fragments of stories, to-do lists, and small entries about how my days unfold. Writing, for me, is more than a hobby. It’s a tool. A refuge. A way to make sense of the chaos in my mind. My imagination is so vivid that I feel I have only two choices: create, or slowly lose myself in the depth of it.
So I keep calling myself a writer.
Not as a bold declaration, but as a quiet promise. A whispered hope I repeat to myself. It’s there in the silent battles, the ones I fight every time I open a blank page, and every time I close one filled with words that still don’t feel like enough.
It took me a long time to find the courage to share what I write—twenty years, to be exact.
But it’s never too late to return to what once felt like home.
As a child, I knew exactly who I wanted to be. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself to follow a different path. A safer one. A quieter one. But the truth is, that dream never really left—it just waited.