Writing Bent but Not Broken was cathartic. The words had been covering my heart for so long that finally giving them their own voice felt like lifting a weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
For years, those words colored the way I saw the world. They were steeped in pain, regret, and the long, hard work of healing. That pain became the entire scope of my vision. My story was survival, and survival doesn’t leave much room for imagination.
But then I set the words free. I set myself free.
As long as those stories stayed inside me, I couldn’t imagine anything beyond them. My world had been consumed by darkness and the effort to make sense of it. Yet once the pain was written, once it lived on the page instead of in my chest, I began to see something different. I could imagine again.
Now, I’m working on a new story. It’s still mine in spirit, but it isn’t my story. It has its own life, its own pulse, its own world. I’m not rushing it. I’m exercising my imagination, exploring its edges, testing how far beauty can stretch.
This new world I’m building is peaceful, imperfect, but harmonious. It reflects what I want to see in life now: balance, connection, and light. The more I write it, the more I find those same qualities in the world around me.
I’ve lived through the dark, the ugly, and the pain. I’ve walked through every shadow. But now it’s time for the light.
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