Dear writing self,

I'm done writing ghost stories. 

Once upon a time, writing felt like a lonely journey. Now, after so many journeys, I have come to realize that writers are never truly alone in our writing. We are haunted by memory and culture, guided by our ancestors – yet even our inner demons of guilt, shame and fear can be embraced. Within us lies entire worlds within worlds, waiting to be discovered. It was in this ensemble I found you, this bricolage of self-expression and frolicking curiosity I'm calling my Writing Self.

Sometimes when I feared being alone in my writing, I yearned to find that Voice™️. An inner voice that could provide direction when I felt lost, that had the power to restore my faith in myself and show me the path forward. At first, I tried building that voice by becoming the person I needed the most in my past. By projecting my scars over my identity, the search for truth within myself deep down was a Sisyphean search for a savior that never came. 

For too long, I dwelled on dreams about fixing, doing the work, and learning, instead of allowing myself to feel at home in my own skin. This body is our residence. Yet my mind was lost in a storm of stories about what I should be, and my heart was haunted by the ghosts of what I wasn't. I make room by digging graves and offering proper burials to my past selves, by grieving all the fires and how they were put out. I'm done writing ghost stories and engraving tombstones for the parts of myself that I am still learning to love again.

With no lease nor fear of eviction, may you, my writing self, accept my unconditional love as the keys to our residence.

Dear writing self,

I'm done writing ghost stories. 

Once upon a time, writing felt like a lonely journey. Now, after so many journeys, I have come to realize that writers are never truly alone in our writing. We are haunted by memory and culture, guided by our ancestors – yet even our inner demons of guilt, shame and fear can be embraced. Within us lies entire worlds within worlds, waiting to be discovered. It was in this ensemble I found you, this bricolage of self-expression and frolicking curiosity I'm calling my Writing Self.

Sometimes when I feared being alone in my writing, I yearned to find that Voice™️. An inner voice that could provide direction when I felt lost, that had the power to restore my faith in myself and show me the path forward. At first, I tried building that voice by becoming the person I needed the most in my past. By projecting my scars over my identity, the search for truth within myself deep down was a Sisyphean search for a savior that never came. 

For too long, I dwelled on dreams about fixing, doing the work, and learning, instead of allowing myself to feel at home in my own skin. This body is our residence. Yet my mind was lost in a storm of stories about what I should be, and my heart was haunted by the ghosts of what I wasn't. I make room by digging graves and offering proper burials to my past selves, by grieving all the fires and how they were put out. I'm done writing ghost stories and engraving tombstones for the parts of myself that I am still learning to love again.

With no lease nor fear of eviction, may you, my writing self, accept my unconditional love as the keys to our residence.