For as long as I can remember, I wanted to help people through words. For a long time, though, the only person I was really writing for was me — an overthinker trying to make sense of her own mind.
I did what most of us are taught to do. I studied, worked hard and built a corporate career, always with one eye on whatever came next — the next role, the next goal, the next version of me.
Along the way came the things no résumé mentions. Heartbreaks. Long, quiet evenings. The strange loneliness of a full calendar. And, slowly, the notebooks — pages and pages of trying to understand what I actually wanted.
What I found surprised me. The calm I kept chasing wasn’t ahead of me at all. It was in the ordinary days I had been rushing through. I just hadn’t been looking.