During the lowest points of my life, when I was afraid to ask for help and pitied those who pitied me, my only refuge was found in words and the spaces between them. When no one seemed to understand me, I turned to writing to make sense of my emotions, convincing myself that feelings were fleeting, but ink was permanent. Documenting the dark times, I believed, would only make the good ones feel even brighter. At this time, carefully crafted words were my preferred form of communication. I wrote countless unsent letters about the things I kept spinning in my mind, yearning to release them before I became dizzy with self-doubt. Through these pages, I connected not only with those I allowed a glimpse into my life but, more importantly, with myself—the girl I wrote to most often, in different contexts, teaching her to heal, word by word.
While I pined to heal like those around me, I often failed to appreciate the lessons I was learning simply through the daily practice of putting pen to paper. Just as my friends were mending heartbreaks and emerging from exhausting relationships with people they resented, I was experiencing my own phases of love, loss, and self-discovery. At the start of this relationship, I made many mistakes. I did things I regret and now look back on with sympathy for the girl I was hurting in the process. Much of what I wrote was laced with the knowledge that, without anyone to hold me accountable, I could be as cruel to her as I wanted. Instead of offering comfort in moments of doubt, I reinforced her disappointment and insecurity, using writing as an outlet to complain about all the ways I wished she were different.
After years of hating through words, I grew to despise them. Instead of letting things go, I fixated on them. If the words spoken about me at school weren’t true, I made them real by meticulously documenting every possible way they could define me. This practice created an inverse relationship between how difficult my life felt and how much of it I recorded—the worse I felt, the more I wrote. The hard times felt harder. The good times felt forgotten.
Nonetheless, somewhere along the way, I realized that shaping my own narrative was a power worth harnessing. By viewing words as a tool for healing rather than degradation, I began to change not only the way I wrote but also the way I viewed my life. It started with finding a new way to record the experiences that once broke my heart: poetry. Suddenly, the soul-crushing stories became vital threads in a intricately woven narrative. Every detail in my mundane life became important and beautiful.
With practice, I learned to capture the countless ways an idea could be expressed on the page. I documented my brother’s midnight laughter while watching Forensic Files. I reflected on the way the sunset’s hues melted together across the ocean. I filled pages with recipes I cooked for my parents on date nights—menus of fresh rolls with crunchy peanut sauce and oozing chocolate soufflés. I realized that words carried different connotations, and even though I was writing about seemingly insignificant moments, that understanding marked a turning point in the relationship I was inadvertently beginning to heal.
Today, I still find poetic potential in the most unassuming parts of my life. I love words—the way they hold the power to transform my self-perception, offering both confidence and comfort. But healing through words is not an easy journey. More often than not, it feels more natural to allow them be swallowed by a self-deprecating train of thought. Yet, learning to trust my own voice has allowed me to stand up for myself in situations where I feel small.
I write letters to my younger self. I write poems about generational trauma. I craft silly short stories about a world far simpler than the one around me. I am still writing, and I know I always will be, because it is through words that I have discovered who I am. My personal relationships have shaped me, but only through reflection have I been able to cultivate an unshakable self-awareness I now bring to every blank page and every new connection.
I am far from healed. Still, the beauty of words lies in their duality. They can shackle or liberate, destroy or rebuild, deepen wounds or stitch them to fading scars. But when used with awareness, they become a bridge between who we were, who we are, and who we hope to become. I will always write, not just because it is what I love, but because it is how I make sense of the world. Through my words, I remind myself, each day, that I am still here, growing, and crafting my story.
Happy Writing
“The thing about writing is I can’t tell if it’s healing or destroying.” -Rupi Kaur
chocolate and politics 
Three words, Healing Through Words, profoundwords. Wh
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