Some people write to share big ideas, like planting seeds for others. Some write to lift people up, like a helping hand. Or just to make someone smile.

But me? I started writing because it felt like my voice was lost in a quiet room, and I was the only one there.

It wasn’t like a big storm inside me. No thunder or lightning. It was more like a slow drizzle, a quiet feeling that my words didn’t have a home. When I talked with family or friends, it felt like I was standing behind a glass wall. They could see me, but they couldn’t really hear my heart. It wasn’t their fault. Everyone has their own music playing loud in their head.

So, I started writing online. It felt like whispering my secrets into a seashell, hoping the ocean might listen.

At first, my blog was like an empty field under a big sky. Just me and my thoughts, running wild like untamed horses. There were no fences. No one telling me where to go. I could just spill everything out, messy and real, like tipping over a bucket of paint. And strangely, that big empty space felt safe. It was a place where I could just be, without trying to be smarter or funnier or better. I wasn’t trying to build anything; I was just breathing.

Then, a little sign appeared. A “like.” A gentle comment. It felt like finding a single, warm light switched on in a huge, dark house. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone in the empty field. Someone had stopped by. I didn’t know how much I needed that little light until it shone. It was like finding a sip of cool water after walking in the sun. And because it felt so good, so warm, I kept going back, hoping for more.

Slowly, without really noticing, I started tidying up my field. I started writing for the light, for the nod. I began smoothing out my words, like polishing stones until they shined. I trimmed the wild thoughts, the ones that felt too tangled. I dressed up my feelings in pretty clothes. I wasn’t telling lies, but I was… shaping my truth to fit the eyes watching me. It was like trading my comfortable old shoes for fancy ones that pinched my feet.

My blog, my safe empty field, started to feel more like a little wooden stage. Even a small stage changes you. You start looking out at the faces watching. You start thinking about how you sound, not just what you feel. Your words become less like whispers to a seashell and more like lines spoken for applause. Your own voice starts to sound like someone else’s echo.

Today, I thought about an old story, maybe just a feeling, of someone talking softly to a wall. Not because they wanted the wall to answer. But just to hear their own thoughts echo back, clear and true. They didn’t need clapping hands. They just needed a quiet space where their own soul could stretch out and be itself, without anyone judging its shape.

That part of me, the one who just needed to talk to the wall, is still here. Maybe a bit dusty, a bit tired, like an old favourite book. But still here.

This piece of writing is a quiet nod back to him.

Maybe these words won’t travel far, like dandelion seeds caught by the wind. Maybe no one will gather around them. But they feel like my own skin. And in a world full of loud costumes, feeling your own skin is the only real magic I know.

We all have a deep hunger to be truly heard, like needing sunshine. But maybe the bravest voice isn’t the loudest one. Maybe it’s the quiet one that keeps whispering its truth, like a steady little stream, even when it thinks no one is listening.