What does it feel like to finally be expressing so much?

It feels beautiful.
It feels right.
It feels aligned.
It feels true.

There’s no other way to say it—it just feels like me.
Like I’ve taken the lid off something that was always there but never allowed to breathe.
Like I’m finally giving space to my inner world, without apology, without permission, without needing to water it down for anyone.

And with that… comes the fear.

Not as loud as it once was. Not as sharp.
But still there in moments.
The fear of being misunderstood.
Of being seen wrongly.
Of being read by people who never really looked at me in the first place—especially my mother, or others from my past who never made space for who I really was.

The closer I get to my truth, the more distance I feel from those people.
And in a strange way, that distance has been a gift.
Because the more I step into my own voice, the more I see how little they ever heard me.
If they read what I write now, they probably wouldn’t even recognise me in it.
Because they never really saw me to begin with.

And that realisation has softened the fear.
It’s no longer a fear of being seen.
It’s just the echo of a much older fear—of trying to explain myself to people who were never open to understanding.

I don’t need to do that anymore.

What matters now is this:
The people who have read my words—just a few of them so far—have said they felt something.
They connected.
They resonated.
And that makes it worth it.
Even if it’s only 10 people. Even if it’s only one.

Because writing like this isn’t just for others.
It’s for me.
To express what was once unspeakable.
To give voice to the parts of myself no one held space for.
And in doing so, to hold that space for myself.

That is healing.
That is power.
And that is hope.