A year ago, I didn’t even know this version of me existed. I didn’t know there was a voice inside me waiting to be heard, or that I could sit with my thoughts long enough to turn them into something real, something that could be felt. Writing was never something I claimed. It was distant, almost like it belonged to other people, people who knew exactly who they were and what they were meant to do.
But life has a way of interrupting what we think we know.
It came in the form of an experience I didn’t ask for, something that unsettled me, stretched me, and refused to let me remain the same. It was the kind of moment that doesn’t just pass through you, it stays, it lingers, it demands to be understood. And in the middle of trying to make sense of it, I found myself reaching for words, not because I planned to, but because I needed to.
At first, it felt unfamiliar. Almost like I was borrowing a voice that wasn’t mine. But the more I wrote, the more something inside me began to open. Slowly, gently, like a door that had been waiting for the right moment to be pushed.
And then I started to notice something I hadn’t seen before.
I was not alone.
There were people, quietly present in my life, who had been there all along. People who listened without rushing me. People who encouraged me in ways that felt small at the time but now feel significant. People who believed in me before I even understood what I was becoming. It wasn’t loud or obvious. It was subtle, almost like it had been placed there with intention.
That’s when it shifted for me.
I realised their presence wasn’t random. The timing wasn’t accidental. Even my writing, something I once thought was far from me, felt like it had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact version of me to arrive.
It felt orchestrated.
Not forced. Not rushed. Just… aligned.
Like every experience, every moment of doubt, every person who showed up exactly when I needed them was part of something bigger than I could see at the time. Something that was gently, patiently carrying me to where I was meant to be.
And now, when I look at myself, I don’t just see someone who started writing.
I see someone who was led here.
Someone who was supported before she even knew she needed it.
Someone who was being shaped in ways she didn’t understand then but is beginning to understand now.
I didn’t force my way into this.
I was carried.
Carried through confusion.
Carried through growth.
Carried into my calling.