Hello.
It’s been over 11 years since the last time I was here. A lot has changed, but somehow, a lot has stayed the same.
The last time I showed up in this little corner of the internet, I was probably half-asleep, running on instant coffee that barely qualified as coffee, and racing against a midnight deadline for some college assignment that felt like the end of the world. Way before that, this blog was where teenage me dramatically poured my heart out, because obviously no one understood my pain and the world needed to know how deep I was. (Yikes.)
And now, a zillion years later, here I am again. Same blog. Different person. Slightly better grammar, and a whole lot more life lessons.
It’s strange how time moves. One moment you’re an overthinking teenager with too many feelings and a Blogspot layout that took days to customize, and the next, you’re an adult with a LinkedIn profile, a full-time job, and somehow still too many feelings. The only difference is, back then I wrote about heartbreaks and exams; now I write because my therapist told me I should. (Hi, if you’re reading this, I’m doing my homework.)
But honestly, it’s more than that. Somewhere between “growing up” and “trying to function like an adult,” I realized I’ve been carrying around this invisible backpack full of thoughts. Heavy ones. The kind that don’t really go away no matter how many series you binge or self-development talks you attend. Writing used to be my way of unpacking all that, even when I didn’t realize it. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing all this time, the quiet honesty that comes when it’s just me, my keyboard, and a brain that refuses to stay quiet.
I used to think I hated writing, though. It always felt like I was exposing myself, like every sentence peeled off another layer of privacy I wasn’t ready to lose. Sometimes it felt as if I was exploiting my own thoughts, and with every word, I was slowly erasing a piece of myself.
But now, I’m changing the story. I write because I want to give my feelings the respect they deserve. To preserve them instead of forgetting them. To acknowledge and validate them instead of sweeping them away. Writing, for me, isn’t self-exposure anymore, it’s self-honoring.
This time, I’m not here to overshare teenage heartbreaks or submit college assignments (okay, maybe a few mini existential crises here and there). I’m here to write like I used to, freely, sincerely, and without worrying about who’s reading. I want to write about the messy, funny, sometimes heavy, mostly honest things that make being human both confusing and beautiful.
Ten years ago, I wrote to figure out who I was. Now, I write to remember who I’ve always been. So here’s to returning, to words, to honesty, to vulnerability, to that little spark that made me fall in love with writing in the first place. No deadlines this time. No grades. No drama (hopefully). Just me, typing my way back home.
I’m writing this as I’m listening to Selena Gomez’s Back to You. But instead of thinking about another person, I think about myself. The unfinished business I have with myself. The way I break my own heart through my own expectations. The way I build walls out of my own thoughts and then struggle to escape them. But at the end of it all, I’d go back to you (to me).
And if you’re somehow still here after all these years, welcome back. Let’s see what happens next. And thank you, for your time, and for being here to read this.
Maybe this time around, I won’t treat writing as a performance, but as a practice, a small ritual to keep myself grounded. I don’t know exactly what this space will turn into, maybe quiet reflections, maybe bursts of joy, maybe a safe place for thoughts that don’t quite fit anywhere else. But that’s the beauty of coming back after all these years, I don’t need to have it all figured out.
I just need to show up. One post at a time. One thought at a time. One honest moment at a time.
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