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I miss writing. I miss when writing didn’t feel like a chore, I miss expressing myself, talking about myself. I haven’t been myself lately, days have turned into weeks and weeks into months. It’s been months since I felt like I was home. You know what? Let’s start from the beginning.

Moving thousands of miles away from home wasn’t the problem or maybe it was. Either way, I’ve chosen not to see it as one. I was losing myself and needed a wake‑up call, the kind that hits you at 5 a.m. after you’ve set your alarm for the gym the night before. It’s a bittersweet experience you end up loving once it’s done. So yes, I moved away from home and everything that felt familiar. I have a toxic relationship with familiarity. “Familiarity” is like a ticking time bomb for me, a seductive rhythm that sways my entire existence until I realise I’ve found comfort in the enemy’s territory.

I’ve always been the person who gives endless chances to everything and everyone except myself (talk about tough love). Letting go feels like losing a version of me that feels safe and known. I wouldn’t call myself a people pleaser; I’d call it first‑daughter, first‑child syndrome, the constant need to do right, be right, act right, the sacrificial lamb, the experimental child.

Honestly, I don’t know what it feels like to simply be myself. I’m not living, I’m just moving through life on vibes. Sometimes I catch myself doing something or laughing at something, and I pause to ask whether I actually enjoy it or if I’m doing it because it feels expected. Moments like that scare me. Instead of being present, I start interrogating everything. It’s not intentional, I promise. It just happens, almost unconsciously. Maybe my brain is wired differently. Or maybe I’m just too in tune with my body. Is that even a thing?

Writing is one of the few things that genuinely makes me happy. Oh! writing has healed me in ways no one could ever understand. Sometimes I like to think I’m a cute person. I love handwritten notes, and I adore when people express how they feel through writing. It hits differently. It feels genuine, soft, sweet, and warm. The effort, the time, the wondering if my handwriting looks cute, the little emojis I doodle, the countless torn pages until the words finally fit. That’s fun to me. I miss it.

I’m not a sad girl, if anything, I might be one of the “numbest” people alive. I say numb because on some days I feel nothing, yet somehow feel everything all at once. I’ve always experienced emotions deeply. When I laugh, I laugh until I snort if you’re really funny. When I cry, I cry so hard my round face becomes even rounder, swollen like a lollipop except it’s not cute, tears are salty and catarrh is definitely not tasty. I hate crying in front of people. I’d rather chew a wall than let anyone see me cry. But this past year? I’ve cried in front of everyone and their mothers. Maybe I needed that kind of cry, the one that could make even God shed a tear. Life has tested me, and honestly, I’m not even mad about it anymore.

Take a deep breath, guys, I know there’s a lot to unpack. Emotional intelligence matters, especially when navigating adulthood. Understanding your emotions, and those of others, is important… but it came to me in the most twisted way. The moment I realised I was a sensitive girl, I shut down. The truth is, I’ve always known. From the moment I had a friend I didn’t want to share with anyone, I always hated showing emotions because I felt everything so intensely, and I hated when people said, “It’s not that deep,” when it was that deep for me.

Acknowledging my sensitivity has shaped my life in strange ways. It made my relationships close yet distant, intimate yet guarded. I’m not the best friend, I won’t argue that. Sometimes I feel like the friendships I’ve lost were my fault. But it takes two to tango, so who really knows? I’ve always had the mindset that I’d rather hurt myself than let anyone hurt me. So when I catch myself falling too deeply, I slip into flight mode before they even get the chance. And when I finally let go of someone or something, it takes a long time to reach that point because once I’m done, it’s final. A point of no return. In my mother’s words: “When you close your mind to something, that’s it. It’s like it never existed for you.” Sometimes I think I’m decisive about things that don’t matter and indecisive about the things that do. But who cares? everything matters, right? Sometimes I think I have a big heart, but I hide it.

I want to live softly and gently. I want peace. I want ease, but anxiety? anxiety said absolutely not. Anxiety is taking the piss, and once it shows its ugly head… (I prefer not to speak). The smallest things make me anxious walking to the bus stop, opening the main door to the road, styling my 4C hair and worrying I look like a five‑year‑old toothbrush. Honestly, everything makes me want to scream. Why am I having heart palpitations because the red light won’t change and I might be five minutes late for work. Can a girly pop just be chill. Can I?

If I’m being honest, I have no idea what “coming home to myself” feels like. I’ve spent so much time with myself, yet I can’t describe that homey feeling. All I know is that the first bite of M&Ms feels like home, that first crunch that sparks sweetness and joy. I want my life to feel like that, for lack of a better expression.

10 hours later

I took a very much needed nap break as I didn’t realise how much I had held in that needed to be let out…oh chim : )

Thank you for reading. I’ll catch you on the next entry x