My journey with writing was always messy. As a kid, I wrote letters to my parents — small attempts to win their love and attention. But somewhere along the way, when expression was taken away, I became the most social person in the room and yet, I lost a small part of myself.
I stayed connected to it in fragments — scribbling down quotes when I felt the urge — but I never allowed myself to go further, to really let the words come out. I was never good at grammar in school. I was that average kid who loved enjoying life, laughing too loudly, always pulled up for “having too much fun.” 😛
And just like there is fear of talking, there is a fear of writing too. I carried that fear quietly. What if my sentence makes no sense? Where do I put the comma? What if someone laughs at me? So I told myself I wasn’t good at writing. I repeated it enough times that I believed it. I lived with it. I fumbled with emails, sent clumsy messages, stopped putting thought into words because I had convinced myself I could never get them “right.”
But then there were the quotes. Whenever I wrote them, the sentences would flow, the grammar seemed to fall into place. Sure, there were mistakes, but they didn’t matter because I was writing about things that mattered to me. For those, I wasn’t ashamed to ask for help. And so I wrote. Quietly. Slowly. Until I didn’t anymore.
Life took over. I was caught up chasing the “right” college, the “right” grades, the “perfect” version of life. It felt like I was running after something that was always two steps ahead. And still, there was this void inside me. Talking about what bothered me never really helped — the heaviness only lifted when I wrote about it. So I had to find my way back to writing.
I started again with journaling. Just simple scribbles about my day, because I didn’t know what else to write. At first, it felt pointless. Who is this for? What am I supposed to do with all these words? But the truth was, it wasn’t for anyone. It was for me.
Slowly, I remembered what writing really was — a way to let feelings spill out when they became too heavy to carry. And when I lost writing, I had lost my way of expressing myself. When I found it again, I felt like I found myself too.
From quotes, I began to write poems. That was a leap. Suddenly, my restlessness, my anger, my pain all had somewhere to go. My thoughts often ran faster than my hand could keep up, but that didn’t matter. The freedom was in the release, not the perfection.
And once it was out on paper, relief would wash over me. Every word, every verse, loosened the grip of what I carried inside.
So I kept writing. Not perfectly. Not for approval. But simply because it was mine.
And I eventually understood — writing was never for “anybody.” It was for me. It was my release, my mirror, my way of processing the world.
“If you’ve ever feared writing, start small. Write for yourself. Write badly, write messily, write what makes no sense. Over time, you’ll realize — it was never about being good at writing, it was always about being true to yourself.”
As I stare into the mirror, looking at myself, I can’t seem to find her.
I look at her blankly, as if I no longer recognize her —
that little girl who loved with all her heart,
who gave everything to everyone who came her way,
who was there for others before she was there for herself,
who never spoke her true desires, just in the name of maintaining peace and happiness.
She — who was too weak, too shy, to step into her power.
As I look closely, I gasp at the sight of the freckles on my skin,
as if they’ve made my face leaner and more defined.
As I look down at my body and hands,
they seem more powerful, more structured,
compared to the bony frame that had been worn down
from giving everything away while neglecting myself.
I keep staring at her, hoping to find one ounce of me.
I stare in despair, wondering if this is who I am now,
or if that was who I was.
And then, as I muster the courage to look more deeply,
I realize it is still me —
just wilder and fiercer than before,
more me than I have ever been.
The girl who now feeds herself
before she feeds others.
— Manasha Shah