Everyone copes in their own ways.

Some people run.

Some people distract themselves.

Some people sleep.

Some people pretend nothing ever happened.

Some people move on before they're even processes what they lost.

And some of us write.

Writing has always been my way of breathing when things feel tight. When my chest feels crowded with words I can't say out loud, I put them somewhere safe. On a page. In a paragraph. Between lines that don't interrupt me.

I don't write because I'm dramatic.

Or maybe I am?

But mostly, I write because I don't want my feelings to rot inside me.

Not everything needs to be confronted. But everything deserves to be understood. At least by the person who feels it.

People cope differently. Some shut down. Some get loud. Some detach. Some avoid. Some act like they don't care.

I write.

I write when I'm angry so I don't explode.

I write when I'm sad so I don't drown.

I write when I miss someone so I don't text them.

I write when I'm confused so I can see my own thoughts clearly.

It's not about attention. It's not about performance. It's not even about being right.

It's about processing.

There's something honest about seeing your feelings in black and white. You can't gaslight yourself on paper. You can't pretend something didn't hurt when you've already written it down.

Writing slows me down. It forces me to articulate what actually happened instead of replaying the emotional version in my head. Sometimes people misunderstood that. They think writing means I'm stuck. That I'm dwelling. That I can't let go.

But to me, writing is how I let go.

Because once it's written, it's no longer spinning inside me. It has somewhere to rest. 

Everyone copes in their own ways.

Some heal by silence.

Some heal by distance.

Some heal by forgetting.

I heal by telling the truth. Even if it's only to myself.

February 27, 2026.