I once wrote about a time when I was deeply hurt—an abused child, abandoned by the one person who should have been my safest place. The pain poured out in my words, raw and uncontrollable, until I found myself sobbing. But in that moment of vulnerability, something unexpected happened: I discovered a hidden door within me. A door of perspective.
For just a moment, I stepped into her world—the one who hurt me. I saw the weight of her unhealed wounds, the pain she carried without knowing how to release it. I didn’t excuse her actions; I couldn’t. But I began to understand. That understanding became the bridge to compassion, not for her choices, but for her humanity.
Writing didn’t erase the hurt. It didn’t make the scars vanish. But it gave me the power to separate the boy who suffered from the man I am today. Writing healed me by reminding me that the past, as vivid as it feels, is as extinct as the dinosaurs. It only holds power if I let it. And when I write from that place of truth, I find peace—not by forgetting, but by living fully in the blessings of the present.