A Welcome Letter

From a very young age, I can remember the feeling of escaping reality or checking out of the present moment by reading books. I spent countless hours curled up with the mysteries and adventures of The Babysitters Club, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, Goosebumps, and hundreds of other titles - ALL of which I still own to this day, I am extremely proud to admit. Throughout all of the moving I've done in my life (which is a lot), I've managed to hold on to all of my beloved kids books in pristine condition. Timeless, priceless treasures to me.

There was never a doubt in my mind when I was growing up that I would one day become a writer myself. Life doesn't always work out the way we think it will, however, and that once bright passion dulled into a kind of background dream. Something intangible, unrealistic and silly even. Every time I have ever started to write, I realize I lack the focus, concentration and confidence to finish a single thing I begin. I have no follow through.

It always boils down to one problem, every single time. This voice in my head asking me what the point of writing is, who is going to read anything I write, and why should they? I have never felt like I was worth an audience.

I don't write anymore, I haven't for quite some time. There hasn't felt like much of a point. But recently, I realized that by allowing that connection to sever - that love I have for reading and writing to wither and shrink, I have done myself a great disservice. I focused too much on the importance of other people reading my work and dismissing it, rather than the true value that writing brings to my life. I forgot the feeling of having to dig deep into the uncomfortable parts of my mind, the past, the doors I've closed and long forgotten, and the emotions that type of probing can stir up.

I've gotten so used to being comfortably numb, but I can say with absolute certainty that I have not been happy.

Existing on this planet, filled with billions of people, more populated now than it has ever been since the beginning of time and space, I can honestly say that I've never felt more alone. Part of that is my fault, a perfectly designed construct whose purpose is to keep me safe from harm, shield me from the pain that other people can cause. From the damage they can do.

Another part of it feels like the condition of the world we live in today, in 2025. The integration of technology has helped propel humankind into an extraordinary age of science and advancement, but not without its costs. That same advancement served to drive people apart, to make isolation easier than ever before to achieve. Humanity is harder to achieve. People feel different now, especially towards each other.

This blog is here to serve a purpose, to have a meaning. I want to connect to other people, to be a real human being, honest and unfiltered. Moreover, I feel a deep need to connect with myself again, and with writing. The truth is I feel really lost, and I know there are others out there who feel the same and need validation.

I've reached this point in my life where I think I've strayed too far from the little girl who read books in the dark with a flashlight until dawn, and I need to get back to her.