They silenced my old voice, so I carved a new one.
My first account vanished without warning the words, the trust, the part of me I had shared with the world. Losing it hurt, but here I am, beginning again.
Writing isn't just what I do; it runs in my veins. Before me, there were others in my family who carried stories, who bled them onto paper in their own time. I'm simply continuing what has always been ours shaping chaos into something that breathes.
If you're here for flawless perfection, you won't find it. My words are raw and untidy, stitched from midnight thoughts, fragile hopes, and complicated people. They carry color the way bruises do unexpected, aching, yet strangely beautiful.
This space is for those who stayed, for the stories that refused to die, and for me  starting over, one word at a time.