Maybe I Do Have Something Worth Sharing

Not everyone sits with it, but many are searching for it.

That was my Goodreads review for Rebirth by Kamal Ravikant. I wrote it today, sitting quietly with the final page still open in front of me. My head was still heavy from being sick, my body aching, but my heart? My heart felt... awake. Stirring. A little raw, but in a good way.

I didn’t expect to finish the book in just a few days. But I did. And when I closed it, I wasn’t the same. Not completely changed, no. But something had shifted. Quietly. Internally.

It’s hard to explain what this book did to me. It didn’t blow my mind. It didn’t dazzle with language. It whispered. It sat next to me. It gave me space to feel what I hadn’t felt in a long time.

And then something else happened.

People noticed. Not in loud, obvious ways. But in those soft, human ways that feel more intimate than any applause. One colleague — we’re not even close — commented on my IG post and said, "You should vlog your trip!" And that one sentence? It stayed with me all day. It wasn’t just encouragement. It felt like recognition.

What is this feeling?

Like life is gently tapping me on the shoulder, saying, "You’re ready now."

And I think I am.

I’ve been writing for years, but I’ve never believed I was a writer. I’ve shared my thoughts in journals, in late-night chats, in half-finished blog posts. But I’ve always pulled back before anyone could call it real. I’ve always thought creativity belonged to other people — people who had the right to chase dreams. Not me.

Because I wasn’t raised to dream. I was raised to endure. To survive. To choose what’s secure. To be grateful for what’s given, even if it doesn’t fit.

But lately — since I came back from Bandung, since I got sick and stayed home, since I started reading again — something is waking up in me. Something real. Something fragile but determined.

I’ve read three books in a week. I’ve been cooking my own meals, eating with intention. I’ve been showing up for yoga again, even when it hurts. I’ve been cleaning up my phone, limiting distractions, building small habits. I’ve been reclaiming space — in my days, in my home, in my heart.

And somewhere in all of that, I’m starting to believe... maybe I do have something worth sharing.

It’s not just about the writing. It’s about what the writing holds.

The pain I’ve been through. The healing I’m still doing. The quiet way I’ve kept going, even when life tried to silence me.

People are reading my words and telling me — softly, privately — that they feel something when they read them. They don’t just scroll past. They sit with it. They see me.

And that’s new. That’s huge. That’s terrifying.

But also… maybe that’s what I’ve been waiting for all this time.

Not fame. Not approval. Just recognition. Just that moment when someone looks at your words and says, "Me too."

So what now?

I don’t know. But I think I want to keep going. I want to write more. I want to keep sharing. I want to create a space where I can be real, and maybe — just maybe — help someone else feel less alone.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have.

So here I am. Sick but healing. Tired but waking. Quiet but present. And I’m going to keep walking this path — unsure, imperfect, but no longer afraid to take the next step.

Because something in me is ready.

This is what it feels like to begin.

It’s a book you don’t read to understand. You read it to feel. To breathe. To open. To surrender.