drowning in doubts.

I bet there are millions of people out there silently screaming, their voices lost in the crowd, aching to be heard. Some shout because they crave the spotlight; others, though, just need someone to truly listen—a lifeline for their unspoken thoughts that feel like they’re slowly drowning them from the inside.

Everyone has their stories. Some wear them like armor, while others bury them deep, hoping someone will notice the cracks.

If I could turn back time, I’d return to a moment when I needed myself most. I didn’t realize how much I had let others shape my thoughts, like hands molding clay without asking if it wanted to be shaped. I said “yes” when I should’ve paused, listened to my own voice, and asked, “Do they really know what’s best for me?” I trusted that they did, but the truth is, the world they navigated isn’t the same as mine.

I’ve loved art for as long as I can remember—not for how it looks, but for how it feels. There’s something profound about the process, about getting lost in it. It’s the one place where my thoughts are entirely my own, where the noise of others fades and I get to breathe. It took years for me to realize that not everything needs to be sculpted by others’ hands; some things, like our dreams and passions, are best shaped by our own.

To be continued.