Sometimes I still wonder if I’m too much. If I’ll ever feel like I’m home somewhere, without needing to escape it all the time. If I’ll find stillness and stop searching for something new.
But the truth is, I’ve been living this story for longer than I realise. This isn’t just a phase, as someone might say. “She just tries to be different.”
No. This is the way I survive.
Every post before this one? They weren’t just reflections. They were reminders. Little pieces of clarity I write to cope. Because writing is how I breathe.
I’m not escaping. I’m trying to find myself. Meeting the same kind of people? That was the cycle I had to break. And I stopped saying yes to the version of me who was afraid, the one sitting in her room all the time, hiding, because she thought she was too much.
That’s when I started to write. Not for people. For me.
Only a few ever knew.
Futile tree.
Not a blog. Not a brand. Just a whisper of the real me, hidden in captions and images. The version that felt the most free. The one that only some of my friends were able to see.
And maybe it was supposed to stay that way. A secret part of me that carried everything I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Until now.
This is the new version of the old me. She’s no longer afraid. She doesn’t need to be chosen or understood. She’s not shrinking anymore. She’s just sharing.
Because maybe, somewhere, someone like my past self will read this and realise that there’s another way. There’s something worth staying for. There’s no need to keep hiding.
This isn’t a brand. This is a threshold. A place where all the versions of me sit down. Some are still healing, some are already whole. But all of them finally heard.
So, if you’re reading this, you’re not here by accident. You found me in the middle of remembering.
And this….
this is where the story begins.