Different

My first draft of "The War I Didn't Know I Was Fighting" scribbled in my journal in late June 2025.

February 26, 2026

I spent time with my mom today.

It was wonderful. It always is.

At one point she asked, “Have you been writing lately?”

I have shared my work with her over time, but it’s been at least a couple of months since I read her anything new. So today, I did. I read her a few of my more recent pieces.

Her first response was, “These are so different from your earlier work.”

And I said, “Yeah, I know. I’ve come a long way in my journey. It’s reflected in my words.”

Because it is.

I was thrown into the deepest parts of the human experience —

witnessing the death of my dad,

and the explosion of the relationship that felt like my home.

The one I loved deeply.

The one I believed in.

That kind of pain doesn’t skim the surface.

It drags you into the inner catacombs of yourself.

While I was down there —

sorting through grief, heartbreak, disbelief —

I used lyrics and metaphors to keep myself afloat.

I bled and bled and bled all over the page.

I wrote from the floor.

From the wreckage.

From the rawest edges of my own psyche.

And I fully embraced my philosophical journey.

I needed to create meaning out of the pain so I could create my beautiful life.

I explained this to my mom, she understood completely.

Then she said something that stopped me.

She said my writing now really sounds like me.

Not the me that was drowning.

But me.

And she’s right.

I can feel it in the stories I choose to tell now.

The reflections. The lessons. The tone.

The words pouring out of me are no longer rooted in pain or psychological recovery.

They’re coming from a woman who walked through the fires,

chose what to leave and what to keep, and integrated the rest.

I am no longer writing to survive — I am writing from wholeness.

And that is everything.