Why do I write?

Because if I didn't, I'd implode.

I remember scrolling in bed through Instagram after a particularly exhausting day with my toddler and a particularly toxic day at work. I was underappreciated at work once again. Unfairly demanded of once again. Not so secretly burnt out yet again. And on that same day, I was clung to for dear life by my toddler. Demanded hours of entertainment and fun. I can’t call that unfair, can I? What does he know about my burnout?

During my scroll, I remember watching a video of a woman emerging out of a jeep in sweats and a camouflage top, with something that looked like blood pooled around the lower half of her body. And then with her emerged only men. Brute men with machine guns. They put her in the boot of a car and off they went. This was my introduction to the 7th October Hamas attack in Israel. I will never forget that scene. My already crumbling nervous system, I think, permanently went into shock that day.

But that wasn’t the end. I didn’t learn. I kept scrolling. The Gaza war started. I kept coming across photos, videos and sounds of babies, of children, of the wailing mothers, of the fathers finding pieces of their children. And I kept watching. I kept crying. My body kept absorbing.

Till one day, I decided to create distance between myself and the world. My little house with thick walls is where we were going to live happily ever after. Away from the wars, the crimes, the injustices, the wailing mothers.

And then a massive earthquake shook that too.

A 7.7, completely uncommon in my part of the world, that shook my apartment and took pieces of the walls down with it, rattling the doors like I had never heard before. My heart rate went up to 170. I remember seeing it on my smartwatch. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. We all took refuge in a parking lot. The only thought in my head was my two year old, who had blissfully slept through all of it. I couldn’t cry in front of him. I had to hold it together.

We stayed the night in a hotel because aftershocks were expected. The government opened up the parks for people with damaged houses or those away from home. That’s where I really wanted to be. With others who might be feeling the same. To take comfort in not feeling it alone.

The days that followed were the hardest. The world resumed back to normal. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Call me a softie, call me weak. I am. I am sensitive. Highly sensitive at that. I didn’t choose it. I came like that. And denying it wasn’t helping. So I started crumbling, just like the walls of my house had during the earthquake.

Then one day, I opened my phone and recorded a voice note. I cried. I screamed. I said everything that had been sitting inside me. And to my surprise, I felt a tiny bit better. I was desperate to talk to someone who may have felt this way, so I transcribed it and shared it on a local mental health group. Turns out many others felt the same. And this was the start of my writing journey.

I write when my tears become too heavy to keep inside. I write to feel like myself again. I write to let the trapped emotions out. If I didn’t, I would probably implode.

I also write to connect. To find others who feel like I do. Because a whole lifetime of performing like someone else has left me surrounded by people I don’t relate to. I need to find others like me, wherever in the world they might be.

I don’t write to be good. I don’t write to be “successful.” I often fall into the trap of chasing numbers, but I catch myself more often than not. Most of my essays are born from my tears. They are not for everyone. And that’s okay.