I stopped writing because of a few comments.

They weren’t helpful. They weren’t kind. And even though I told myself not to take them personally, I did. I let them in. They echoed every time I sat down to write—until eventually, I just... didn’t.

What started as doubt turned into full-on writer’s block. Not the kind where you’re just stuck for a day. The kind that makes you avoid the page entirely. The kind that whispers, “Why bother?”

It sucked the fun out of something I used to love. And worse, I let it.

But here I am now—writing this. Not because the block magically lifted, or because I suddenly stopped caring what people think. I’m writing again because I finally remembered why I started in the first place: I write for me.

That’s it. No performance. No pressure. Just honesty. Just my voice again.

If you’ve ever gone silent because someone made you feel small: same. But I’m done giving that kind of power away. This is me showing up, even if it’s messy, even if it’s slow.

I’m writing again. And this time, it’s for me.