I don’t write to impress. I write to get things off my chest and out of my head. Writing is where I tell the truth before I start editing myself for the world.

Most of what I write starts messy—half-formed thoughts, sharp memories, questions with no clean answers. That’s the point. This is where the real work happens, before polish, before permission, before anyone decides what’s acceptable.

I write about culture, identity, and the weight of lived experience because those things don’t sit quietly. They press. They demand language. Some days the words come soft. Other days they come swinging. I let them.

This space isn’t for finished pieces. It’s for honesty. It’s where I test my voice, confront my silence, and figure out what’s worth saying out loud.

If something survives this stage—if it still feels true after the dust settles—then it earns its way into the world.