When Writing Makes You Feel Small..

I knew writing this book would be hard. What I didn’t expect was how much it would make me feel… small.

Not small in the sense of weak or incapable—but small like my inner child had suddenly crawled to the surface and started running the show.

There were days I’d be typing and my hands would literally shake. I felt exposed. Every old wound I thought I’d “handled” was wide open again. And I could feel that scared little girl in me saying, “What if they see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

Growing up, perception was everything in my house. My mother was careful about how we looked, how we behaved, how we were received. So I learned early on that confidence didn’t come from me—it came from how others reacted to me. I became addicted to that validation. If they liked me, I could like me. If they didn’t, I’d start shrinking.

Writing this book broke that wide open. There’s no hiding behind a smile in a poem like the ones in No Sunshine. The voice that came out was raw and trembling, but it was mine. And sharing it meant I had to stop waiting for permission to be who I am, scars and all.

These days, I talk to my inner child a lot. I remind her that it’s safe to tell the truth now. Safe to take up space without performing. Safe to stop scanning the room for approval and just breathe.

It’s still scary—sometimes I hit “post” or “publish” and my heart jumps into my throat. But little by little, I’m learning that self-acceptance feels better than anyone else’s applause.