Finding Myself Again, Piece by Piece

Mood : 5/10

I never thought I was a writer. I never thought I was anything, really. Just someone who liked words, art, photography, vlogging, podcasting—creating, in any form I could. It’s how I make sense of things, how I escape, how I lay out the map of my mind when everything inside me is tangled up. But am I a writer? Is it too late to even try?

I’m 27. That thought creeps in sometimes, whispering that maybe I should’ve figured everything out by now. That maybe I’m too old to chase something I barely understand, something I’ve never even let myself believe I could be. But then again, I can’t seem to stop. Writing, creating—it’s like breathing. No one reads my blog. No one listens to my podcast. No one watches my YouTube videos. But I still do them. Because they’re mine. Because I love them.

And yet…

There’s still that tiny craving for validation. Pathetic, right? I started all this for me, and yet, somewhere deep inside, there’s still a part of me that wonders if someone will ever see me. Maybe it’s the scars talking.

Because once upon a time, I loved doing all of this without fear. But my ex hated it. Hated me doing it. It was never about views or attention. It was just for me. But he never understood that. He would get mad—no, not just mad. Disgusted. Like I was some attention-starved fool seeking something beyond him, and to him, that was betrayal. But I wasn’t looking for anyone else’s attention. I was just trying to be me. And he made me feel like that wasn’t allowed.

And now, even after all this time, I realize I still carry that shame. That guilt. That smallness. That fear of being out there again. It’s crushing. Because back then, I felt unheard. So completely unheard. And even now, I can still feel it.

But it wasn’t just him.

My dad—he never wanted me to be seen either. Even the smallest things, like wearing something just a little prettier than usual, would bring out his criticism. A touch of makeup? He’d tell me to wipe it off. A pair of heels? Too slutty. His voice was always there, making me feel like being noticed—being anything—was wrong.

And so, I shrank.

I stopped doing a lot of the things I once loved. Not because I didn’t love them anymore, but because the people in my life, the ones who were supposed to love me, made me feel like I shouldn’t. They made me feel like existing too loudly was a mistake.

Even now, it lingers.

80% of my workdays, I go in barefaced. No makeup, nothing. Back then, I wouldn’t even leave the house without doing my eyebrows at least. Now? I don’t even think about it. I don’t know if that’s just a phase or if it’s trauma wearing a new disguise. But if I walk into a makeup store? Oh, I still go crazy over everything. I still love it. But there’s always that hesitation. That self-consciousness. That voice in the back of my head, making me question if I should. If I’m allowed.

Pathetic, right?

But maybe not.

Because despite all of that, I think I’m a bit braver now.

All my clothes? I love them. I picked them. My style is mine. And yeah, in the early days, my mom would still comment here and there, but I wore what I wanted anyway. And I learned to be confident in it. Big arms in a sleeveless top? So what? Wide hips in a mini skirt? Let’s go. A crop top that barely covers anything? Rizz it up!

Of course, I still adjust depending on where I’m going—modesty for family gatherings and all that. But the difference is that I choose. I decide when and how I want to express myself. It’s not about restriction anymore. It’s about owning myself.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey is about.

I spent so long being told what I wasn’t allowed to do. To wear. To create. To be. And now, at 27, I’m unlearning all of it, piece by piece. I’m reclaiming the things I loved, the things I lost, the things I was made to feel ashamed of. It’s slow, and it’s messy, and sometimes it still hurts.

But I’m here.

I don’t know if I’m a writer. Or a creator. Or anything at all.

But I know that I love writing. I love creating. And I don’t want to stop.

So, maybe that’s enough.

For now, at least.