Embracing Raw Writing: A Journey of Self-Expression

English isn’t my first language, and yet, here I am—trying to fit my thoughts into words that sometimes feel foreign, like clothes that don’t quite belong to me. I am a stranger in my own life, an outsider looking in, searching for pieces of myself in a language that wasn’t made for me. I hardly recognize my voice and my thoughts. They come out tangled, hesitant, and I wonder if they’re truly mine or if they’ve been shaped by everything I’ve tried to be. I thought that if I wrote them down, they would make more sense, that maybe I would find something familiar in the lines. But all I see are echoes, fragments of who I was and who I’m supposed to be, scattered on a page. I am both here and not here—rooted in this language yet floating somewhere outside it.

I write in fragments, unruly verses, broken sentences strung together with a rhythm only I know. It’s not tidy, this process; it’s raw and unsettled, much like my heart. My life spills out in unfinished stories and essays, poems that don’t always rhyme, in pieces that defy any demand for neatness or closure. Each word, each line is a handhold, reaching into that murky place where fear lives—the fear of judgment, the desperate need for approval.

I’m chasing something I lost, something I set down long ago—the pure, reckless urge to write for the sake of writing, to be alive in my own words without apologies or expectation. I want to carve out space where I exist fully, raw, and unfiltered, where each line I write isn’t about pleasing anyone but about letting the story breathe, wild and unconfined. It’s not just writing; it’s a clawing back of the right to exist in my own voice, without asking anyone’s permission.