For a while now, I’ve been trying to fit into a mold.
You know the one — “Provide value.” “Give people a takeaway.” “Offer the 5 steps, the 3 truths, the 1 secret.”
I thought perhaps I could carve out a space in the self-help world. Maybe even make a little money from it. After all, I’ve lived through pain, collapse, and reinvention. I know what it feels like to come undone, to rebuild, to keep going. I figured that meant I had something useful to say. And I still think I do — but not in that voice.
That voice was never really mine.
It was me trying to be neat, helpful, and polished when what I actually value is messiness, rawness, and authenticity.
I’m not a life-hack guru. I’m not a checklist person.
I’m a poet, a writer, and a deeply flawed, yet observant person who transforms experience into language. To be honest, I prefer my writing to be raw and fluid — for my words to, dare I say it, bleed on the page.
For a while, I forgot that essential truth about myself. Or perhaps I simply abandoned it, hoping that this other version of me might be more palatable. Easier to understand. Easier to market.
But after doing some soul-searching, I realize now that I was desperate for validation — claps, likes, followers — and I thought writing clickbait-style articles with bulleted tips and digestible steps would be my ticket to becoming a paid writer on Medium.
I was wrong.
Because I was lying to myself.
The writers who game the dopamine algorithm with recycled Reddit psychology and ChatGPT regurgitations treat their writing like a flowchart, a business plan—a neatly packaged product engineered to convert, not connect.
And hey — maybe that works for them. It certainly works for a lot of people.
But that’s not why I write.
I write to unpack my own truths, ask questions, explore my creativity — to get to the heart of what makes us human. It may be a slower burn and require more patience from the reader: