Why I Write About Sad Things
A reflection on writing as self-holding, not performance
“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”
I looked at him, curious.“What do you mean?”
“You always came off as… sad online.”
Sad?
Here I was thinking my writing was deep. Personal. Introspective.
But to my date, it was—lacking a better word—depressing.
We never went on another date, but I still think about what he said.
He wasn’t wrong.
I do write about things people would rather not hear.
It’s a response I’ve come to expect.
Yet it still stings.
It touches on one of my deepest wounds.
I grew up in a home where no one ever really said what they meant.
Where everything got swept under the rug.
Where any reasonable expression of emotion would immediately be dismissed.
I’m tired of living in a world that demands we pretend.
Pretend we’re okay.
Pretend we’re not angry.
Pretend we don’t feel deeply when we’re crumbling inside.
My writing is my refusal to play along.
It’s my way of saying: IT IS OK TO FEEL.
It is okay to be uncomfortable.
The present is not the permanent.
It is a reminder that healing doesn’t come from avoidance.
That hard times don’t have to break you.
That success can look like wholeness, softness, stillness.
That regular-degular people can live extraordinary lives—defined not by money, but by their inherent worth.
There are times I don’t know where to put all my feelings.
They feel too big, too loud, too much for anyone else to hold.
So I pour them into the page.
Because the page never flinches. Never looks away.
Because even when you're my best friend,
even when you're listening with your whole chest,
a part of me still wonders—
Am I taking up too much space?
Writing has become the place I go to hold myself.
To tell the truth without apology.
To honour the parts of me that still feel like they need to whisper.
I write from my heart.
And sometimes, my heart is breaking.
When I write privately, it’s for those heartbreak moments.
It’s where I let myself feel it all—uncensored, unfiltered.
It’s where I give those feelings names, shape, colour.
It’s how I slow down enough to connect my heart with my mind and begin to make sense of it all.
When I write publicly, it’s the medicine I’ve made from the mess.
It’s the salve.
It’s the alchemy—transforming pain into something beautiful, digestible, and freeing.
It’s my way of letting go.
This practice is sacred to me.
I'm building a space I can return to if I ever get lost again.
I write with myself in mind—but somehow, others always find themselves in the words too.
I don’t always know who I’m writing for.
But I trust they’ll find my words when they need them most.
These past few months, as I’ve become more intimate with myself,
I’ve seen just how much words have shaped my becoming.
How essential it is for me to pen these remembrances.
Not just for me, but for the ones who haven’t yet learned the tools to hold space for themselves.
I write “sad things” because sadness is part of being alive.
Because in a world where we’re always connected, loneliness can still feel bone-deep.
Because the journey can feel like it’s yours to bear alone.
But you’re not alone.
That’s why I write.
To remind you that even in your darkest hour,
there is beauty waiting at the edge of your pain—
even if you can’t see it yet.
🌑 A quiet note
I’ve started a new paid series called Ground Zero—a private reflection space where I’m documenting the tender, behind-the-scenes work of starting over.
It’s not polished. It’s not packaged. Just the honest process of becoming.
If that resonates, you’re invited to read the first entry with a 7-day free trial 👇
To those who write from the heart and wonder if it’s too much—keep going. There’s power in your tenderness. If this moved something in you, feel free to leave a comment or share it with someone who gets it.
Thank you for reading ‘Becoming Moken’
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