There comes a time when you realise you have spent years living a life that you can describe in detail, and yet you still can't fully articulate or explain. You know the place, the losses, but when someone asks why, or what it all means, you realise there are no easy answers.
For years I thought that understanding would arrive like the final chapter of a book. After three books and sixteen years of writing, I imagined that one day I would be able to look back, see and understand the reason why. Instead, the years continued to unfold, and with them came more questions about a life I knew nothing about.
Writing became the only response. Not because it fully explained my life, but because it allowed me to bear witness to challenges. Every article has captured another fragment of experience, another attempt to hold together moments that were impossible to know and reconcile. The act of writing hasn't solved the mystery; it has simply given the mystery a place to exist.
Perhaps that is what I have needed most: not somewhere to leave what I carry, but somewhere it can rest beside me for a while.
Coming to terms with a life is not about reaching complete understanding. When so much lies beyond your control, it never can be. Instead, it asks us to live alongside ambiguity without allowing it to diminish our truth.
I no longer believe that peace waits at the end of perfect understanding. Things do not always become lighter because we understand them.
I think it begins the moment we stop expecting we'll have every unanswered question answered. In the meantime we need to continue to be honest with ourselves and live life honestly.
My life has unfolded in ways I could never have predicted – yet I know it's mine. I’ve had to own every piece of it to survive. I exist. I know my story inside out – even if it took years to understand.
Writing is the honest way to remain faithful to what I have lived, and to myself.
We all owe ourselves that. None of us is exempt.
