What they don’t see

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There’s something no one tells you about being perceived as “strong”: it’s exhausting.

People see what you offer them. The output. The curated energy. The smiles, the wit, the competence. And if you’re really good at performing the role, they rarely ask how you’re doing. They just assume you’re doing fine. Thriving, even.

What they don’t see is the fight beneath the stillness.

The pep talks before you show up.

The tears that come after the phone call ends.

The way your chest tightens before you click “send.”

The mornings you sit at the edge of your bed, willing yourself to just… start.

They don’t see the rituals that keep you upright.

The playlist that summons your voice back.

The coffee you reheat three times before it ever reaches your mouth.

The voice notes you record and delete. Then record again.

I’m learning that part of the ache comes from being invisible in plain sight. And it’s not because people are careless. Sometimes, we become very good at hiding—at being functional, charismatic, articulate—while slowly eroding from the inside out.

There have been days I’ve performed confidence while feeling like a fogged mirror. Present but unclear.

There have been seasons I’ve ghosted people, not because I didn’t love them, but because I was afraid they’d ask questions I didn’t have answers for.

And there have been long stretches when I’ve written nothing, not because I had no ideas, but because I couldn’t face what those ideas might reveal about me.

So if you’re someone who seems “fine” to others but feels like you’re barely holding the seams together—this is for you.

I see you.

And I’m trying to see myself too.

The Day I Almost Quit Writing

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So, there was a day—not too long ago—when I genuinely considered quitting writing. Like, for real. Not the dramatic “I’ll never do this again!” kind of moment, but the quiet, heavy kind. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind you don’t say out loud, because saying it would make it true.

I had opened my laptop and stared at the screen for a solid hour. Typed a few words. Deleted them. Typed something else. Deleted that too. Then I just sat there, arms crossed, blinking into the void of the blinking cursor. That thing is a menace, by the way. Judgy little stick flashing at you like, “You good, sis?”

I wasn’t.

That day, I felt like I had nothing left to say. Or rather, I had things to say but didn’t trust myself to say them well. That’s the difference. It’s not the blank page that scares me—it’s the fear of not doing justice to the thing I care about. The story I want to tell. The person I want to honour. The truth I’m not sure I can shape without softening it too much… or slicing too deep.

So yeah. I almost quit. Not in a meltdown way. Just… quietly. Neatly. I thought maybe I could bow out gracefully, stop trying, and redirect all that creative energy into something else. Something less… exposing.

But then, something unexpected happened.

I got a voice note from a friend. She was laughing about a line I’d written in something ages ago. It was a throwaway line—nothing special. But it stayed with her. And in that moment, I remembered what writing can do. Not in the grand, earth-shifting sense. But in the small ways. A sentence that stays. A line that lets someone exhale. A story that makes someone feel a little less weird, a little more seen.

That was enough to keep me from quitting.

Barely, but still.

So I didn’t write anything amazing that day. I didn’t suddenly get a brilliant idea or complete a half-done draft. I just showed up again the next morning. And the one after that. And I started learning that the practice of writing—especially on the days when it feels pointless—is what makes you a writer.

Not the accolades. Not the perfect sentence. Not even the finished work.

Just the showing up.

And so here I am, still showing up. Still not always knowing what I’m doing. Still hoping that something I write—maybe even this—will land where it needs to.

Returning to the Page

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Yesterday night, I couldn’t sleep. That’s nothing new—middle age things. That’s right. I am now officially middle-aged. Or at least somewhat close. I keep thinking maybe, because of human advancement, we’ll be living until at least 120 years. In which case, I am nowhere near a midlife anything. But still.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a restlessness that no scroll, no conversation, no Netflix binge can still. Even during the day. And when I’m really quiet, I can hear the itch to pick up my journal and write. At night, the urge is stronger. During the day, some voices are louder…

“What if you wrote again, Ema?”

I usually shake my head in dismal response. Because… FEAR. I don’t know how to answer that question.

Whereas the romantic in me thinks writing again would feel like returning to a friend I once loved, my inner child remains unsure if that friend even wants to speak to me. And so… I’m paralyzed.

(Ok. Pause. Now that I think of it, there’s a friend of mine who isn’t speaking to me and—well—this is exactly how I feel about that too. I’ll double-click on that later.)

I’ve written before about writer’s block, but I recently unlocked a new layer of hell: creative paralysis.

For a long time—say, about four years—I haven’t really been writing. At least not in the way a serious writer should. Part of it was life doing what it does. The other part? Just a lot of noise. The kind of noise that drowns out any flicker of humor, tragedy, or inspiration that could drive a story.

I think I lost touch with my inner narrator—the one who connects to the characters and listens to their stories, then reaches out to me so I can spin moments into metaphor and silence into sensation. Losing her was terrifying. Life got so loud in my head that I couldn’t hear myself. And losing that connection to story made me imagine a dead muse in a castle somewhere—or at the very least, passed out.

As I write this now, I think the reason I couldn’t write wasn’t that I had nothing to say. I stopped because I didn’t know how to say what I needed to say without breaking.

Man, I really admire people who can channel sadness into writing. For me, grief choked out every bit of light. I felt like there was nothing left to connect me to my creative core.

But in the last few months, I’ve kind of started returning to myself. I think the insomnia and the urge to write are some forms of muscle memory. The words have started to return—not in a rush, but in fragments. What excites me is that these half-formed thoughts come while I’m showering or doing life things. When I’m driving. When I take slow walks on the beach.

It feels like I’m reconciling with my inner story concierge. Maybe I can start trusting that the world of story can hold me again.

I know this isn’t a triumphant return. It’s not a grand announcement either. I left so many projects hanging when I went on freeze, so there’s no shiny new thing to plug. But I do feel like there’s plenty inside me that’s aching to be heard.

So, I’m here. Once a week. For the rest of the year.

Not to impress.

Not to perform.

Just to tell the truth, as best I can, in the moment I’m in.

I’m back.

And I’m beginning again.

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We don’t really talk anymore

But every time I see you

I am reminded of talks and sighs and shares

Where connections settled into calm knowing

and understanding was felt and reflected

and I wonder how we walked so far out without each other

you are so within my reach but my heart feels singed when I think to touch you again

we can’t really talk anymore

Nefelibata

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A friend sent me a really beautiful picture with a word that I am not even sure I can pronounce. The word – Nefelibata – describes a dreamy individual who dances to their own tune. I jokingly asked my friend if that was me. She surprised me when she said yes. I giggled, actually. Mostly because on my best day I would honestly wish I was this person.

I have written before that I think the writer version of me is my best self. I feel that I was built to be a writer but I just didn’t know. And so, my life has taken me down roads that leave me writer-adjacent with deep longing to truly live a writer’s life. I honestly think that if I had chosen the writing track, my life would have been totally different. In some ways, I hold a belief that there is a whole life that awaits me on the other side of embracing my Nefelibata-ness.

What remains astonishing to me is that even after all this time and after all those affirmations from the interwebs, the novelty of walking the road less traveled is more a marvel rather than a lived experience. What is this courage that I (maybe you, we?) need to really live? Maybe it’s not too late to try and be Nefelibata?

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By far, my funniest organ is this delicate heart

that remembers crazy and lovely moments

that exalts and condemns with breaths in between

that longs and connects with as much fervor as it disconnects

humor me.

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I see you lately and wonder if you remember even faintly

that we were naked and held together

by whispers and feelings and joining

and sighs and moans and secrets

and gazes shared in sacred and tight spaces.

I see you lately and wonder if we were worth

the tender longing for intimacies past

and wished for knowing, bared only in shared paces and

ambles in singular nearness.

I see you lately and wonder if we are worth remembering at all.

Rethinking Ema

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So when I first started this blog, I wanted to have a way of connecting myself as an author to my future audience. In my mind, I was going to be writing and publishing many many books every year. My dream was that I would be sensational and lots of people would want to know me… hehehe… and so my blog became performative in some sense. When I read these posts, I find only snippets of myself and wonder who this person was that wrote these words. They sound like they could be my words but they also give me a sense of holding back. Some posts are quite raw – showing my insides and make me cringe ever so slightly. Being witness to your past pain is quite a jarring experience. Being witnessed to a version that you have evolved from makes you introspect a bit more… So I guess in all this, I have a question – what is true now? What remains true? What is the essence of Ema?

I think I still want to write. I continue to write. I have some great days of discipline and some not so great days. I am surer of the voice in which I write. I am humble in my pursuit of this craft. This is truly a gift that flows its own course — to be subject to its whims is quite the lesson I sometimes need — being too sure of oneself has some downsides. I have less doubt and this makes writing that much easier. There are still stories inside me that are bursting to be told. I will try my best to honor this call. This is my greatest dream and it to be a prolific writer will be my greatest achievement.

What does this mean for Ema? The name lives on, I guess. I will continue to write and Ema will continue to publish. What I hope to create is a world that feels authentic to me – the storyteller me – you know, which is a small part of the other parts that make me, me!

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Promise me…

When you love that you will love with an open heart

That you will remember what is freely given is never in vain

That you will trust love’s wellspring from the core of your being

That you will realize that love doesn’t hurt as much as you fear 

And most of all, that you will allow love to complete itself in your existence and being.

Promise me…

That when you choose love that you will surrender

Because to live without love is the tragedy of any instance of life that you imagine.

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Everyone thinks they’re special.

Everyone should think that they’re special.

Everyone should feel that they are special.

Everyone is special.

Everyone is.

Every one.

Worthy.