When I chose to embrace the philosophy of becoming nobody, I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d still have to let go. The writing challenge that sparked Nobody’s Words began with a hard truth: despite everything I’d done to forgive my past—my abusers, their pain, my pain—I still felt haunted. It was like thorns wedged deep into my skin, refusing to release me.
I’d faced this realization before, but this time the frustration boiled over. I couldn’t understand why the trauma stuck when I’d worked so hard to let it go. I thought I’d done the work. The soul-searching, the forgiving, the moving on. But the pain clung, silent and stubborn, like a shadow I couldn’t escape.
When I sat down to write, I made a decision: this wouldn’t be another space for negativity. I didn’t yet know the words would transform me, but I knew they needed to flow. The parts of me buried under the unresolved pain had to surface. The toxicity had to leave my mind and bleed onto the page.
Those first days felt raw. Like ripping out thorns one by one, exposing wounds I’d been covering for years. The words weren’t polished. They weren’t kind. They were jagged, angry, and aching. But I kept going. I couldn’t stop. There was clarity in the mess of it all—a clarity that whispered, You’re finally letting this go.
As the words came, I realized something: I wasn’t writing as the person who had lived those moments. I was writing as someone new. The one pulling those memories apart was no longer defined by them. Even if I didn’t fully understand it then, I could feel the shift.
What I learned in those moments was the power of acceptance. Accepting what happened. Accepting how I felt—then and now. Accepting that the only way out was forward. This acceptance became the foundation of my transformation.
In those early weeks, I didn’t know if the writing would become a storm or a calm. I didn’t know if it would shape the book or just serve as a release. But what I did know was this: it was necessary. Writing through the pain wasn’t just healing—it was freeing.
There are still parts of my story I haven’t touched. Wounds I haven’t dared reopen. Healing is never really finished. But I’ve learned this: the more I write with light, the more that light fills me.
Before the Storm was the first step. Not just for the book, but for my life. A life built on acceptance, healing, and the freedom of becoming nobody.