Writefully Me✨

I’ve always loved notebooks. Not the aesthetic kind—the necessary kind. The ones you buy because your spirit is full and heavy at the same time. The ones you fill with everything you can’t say out loud.

I wrote in them endlessly. Budgets. Prayers. Broken thoughts. Feelings I didn’t know how to name yet. Pages soaked with tears. Pages written just to survive the night. Those notebooks held versions of me that were trying—trying to feel better, trying to make sense of pain, trying to stay.

Then winter came.

The kind of winter where the fireplace stays lit, not just for warmth, but for comfort. And one evening, I fed the fire every notebook I had ever cried into. One by one. Page by page. I watched my words curl, blacken, disappear.

It wasn’t destruction.

It was surrender.

The fire didn’t just burn paper—it burned weight. It burned old prayers that had already been answered in silence. It burned versions of me that no longer needed to be carried forward. Ashes where pain once lived.

I kept one notebook. Just one. For planning. For grounding. For thoughts that didn’t need saving. But I hardly touched it—because my words had evolved. They had found a new home. A braver one. A public one.

Then Christmas arrived with a quiet miracle.

A notebook.

Blank.

Untouched.

No history. No grief. No tears pressed into its spine.

Just pages waiting.

Waiting for a version of me that writes not to survive—but to be.

To choose.

To begin again.

And this time, the fire stays behind me.

The pages stay open.

And I write from what remains.