I keep turning to prompt journals, apps, an whatever thing promises to help me sort my thoughts.

Then I end up with some subscription.

But truthfully?

Every time I write, I’m guiding myself.

I start with a fact. A realization. An emotion. An event. 

I asses it.

I address it.

I explore it until the mess in my head finds the words.

Writing isn’t just writing.

It’s where I feel safe.

Free.

It’s where I can let everything out-

The sadness that’s too heavy for conversation.

The joys that sometimes feel better in solitude.

It’s where I drop the curtains and let vulnerability take center stage.

I am learning that I am my biggest ally.

Some people won’t get that.

Guess what?

They don’t have to.

I don’t have to worry if I’m overwhelming anyone.

I can ride the full mental roller coaster without apologizing for how any twists and turns it takes.

I can over-explain until my hand cramps and eyes blur,

Or keep it short and sharp.

Either way-

It’s valid.

I’m valid.

As long as I get it, that’s enough.

For so long I thought being alone meant being lonely.

I thought I needed people to fill the spaces in me.

Someone-anyone-to keep me from facing myself.

 I was terrified of being left alone with my thoughts.

Convinced that my regrets and scars would swallow me whole.

And I never gave myself credit for doing what I was doing for others-

The things I should’ve been doing for myself all along.

This relationship, this toxic lifestyle-

It ballooned into something so overwhelming.

I am in a room full of people and still feel completely alone.

That fear of loneliness?

It clouded my judgment.

It let anyone occupy a seat in my life.

But giving out seats without a filter

Led to a deeper isolation than being alone ever had before.

At first, I went hard.

Arms thrashing. Breaths short. Heart racing.

But I didn’t get much closer.

All energy, no strategy.

Burnt out-fast.

The water started to pull me under again.

Limbs heavier.

Mind heavier.

But-

Mama didn’t raise no bitch.

Resilience roared back.

“Calm your breathing.”

“Stop flailing.”

“Light as a feather.”

“Now kick.”

“Slowly.”

“Let your arms rest.”

“There-see that light dancing on the surface?”

“Swim towards it.”

Now?

I’m still swimming.

Pacing myself.

I still get tired.

I still need rest.

And I’m learning to accept it.

Because tomorrow?

I’ll swim again.

The island is closer.

I see signs of life.

And you know what?

I’m doing this.

Myself.

My way.

I think I’m going to make it.

No-