MY PATH CARVED IN INK

I used to write from the wounds I carried. For years, my voice lived in the shadows of my past, shaped by silence, survival, and the belief that pain was the only place my words could come from.

Writing was how I breathed through the hurt. It was how I made sense of the things I couldn’t say out loud. But every poem felt like reopening a door I was trying to close.

When I began healing, I was terrified. I thought if the pain faded, the words would fade with it. I didn’t know who I was without the trauma I had learned to write through.

But healing didn’t take my voice. It revealed it.

I learned that I am not my pain. I am not the silence that was forced on me. I am a woman who survived, who rose, who reclaimed her own name.

Now I write as a survivor — not to relive what broke me, but to honor the woman I became.

My poetry is where I give myself the things I was denied: the dreams I wasn’t allowed to dream, the softness I wasn’t allowed to hold, the voice I wasn’t allowed to use.

This is my story. Not the trauma — the transformation. Not the wound — the becoming. Not the silence — the return of my voice.

I am unmuted. And I will never be silenced again.