A letter

for the parts of us that don’t speak in bullet points.

I have words I promised myself I’d write.

That’s my devotion. That’s my sovereignty.

I admire those who write with a clear aim—something purposeful, profitable with clear strategy and calls to action. I truly do. The noble art of poverty and suffering is a badge nobody should aspire to anymore. I raise my invisible hat to anyone doing it with integrity and heart and gut. I nod the way wild horses do, a flicker through the body that says: I see you.

But I can’t translate that into my own writing.

Because that’s not its essence. This is not a message, not a brand, not a Transformation Pathway™.

Its essence is layered. Alive in ways metrics can’t track. Like a southwest wind that brings in stories older than language, the scent of somewhere you’ve never been but ache for, the clearing of storms and warmth that leaves your skin humming.

There have been moments I’ve wished it wasn’t. I’ve tried to make it linear, pitchable, scalable. But every time I do, something wilts. You can’t bottle the southwest wind.

The truth is—

I don’t write to make sense of things.

I write because they already make sense to me—in ways that can’t be diagrammed—or they don’t.

And I’m okay with the don’t.

I don’t write for clarity.

I don’t write to arrive anywhere.

I don’t write to be or become or for a flare into the void.

I write as a proof of life.

A shape language for the parts of us that don’t speak in bullet points. They speak in fog, scent, longing. This is their tongue.

I write echoes of coming home.

I know this isn’t the usual way.

I know it doesn’t fit the content calendar, the SEO guidelines, or the online ecosystem that rewards repetition over revelation.

And yes, that used to make me sad. Sad that the essence of what wants to come through me is unsystemisable. Unshapable into a neat container.

It’s the ache of not belonging that softened me into overflow.

A cup that runneth over—from inside.

If it feels like home to you too, I’m glad we crossed paths here.

If it doesn’t, I might feel a flicker of tenderness.

But I won’t contort. I won’t translate. I won’t shrink myself to fit because I’m not writing to convince you, not to negotiate anything.

I’m writing because these words showed up a long time ago, tapped on the inside of my ribs, and said: “Let us out. We need to breathe.”

And I need breath, too. Maybe you know what it’s like to carry unsaid words that want out.

Not for a mission, but just to say: I am here. In the aliveness. I am here for being the breath before words. The pause before the song. The pulse beneath it all.

A proof of life.

Mine, maybe yours.