There’s a saying I used to hear all the time.
People would say they were travelling to find themselves.

And I got it. I really did.
Because for a long time, I thought I was meant to find myself too.
As if who I was had gone missing somewhere — in a place, a woman, a song, a silence.
And I chased that feeling like a thread through cities, relationships, countries, causes.

Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse. In the mirror. In music. In the eyes of someone who saw me before I learned to hide. But it never lasted.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t lost.
I was layered.

Layered beneath the names I’d been given, the masks I wore to survive, the roles I played without even realising I’d auditioned. And the more I searched for myself, the more I missed what was already here.

I remember the moment it shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks.
I was sitting quietly, just watching the breeze move the trees outside. That was all.
But something inside me loosened.
And a simple thought floated through:
What if there’s nothing to find?
What if who I am has always been here, beneath all the trying?

It didn’t change everything overnight. But it changed something. I stopped chasing.
I stopped measuring myself by old pain or future dreams.
And for the first time, I began to feel present in my own skin.

That’s when the real writing began.

Not to become someone. But to uncover what I no longer needed to protect.

To speak from that stillness that doesn’t care about how it’s received, only that it’s real.

So if you’re tired of looking for yourself, I get it.
You don’t need to go anywhere.
Just be still long enough to hear what’s already speaking underneath the noise.

It’s not hiding.
It’s waiting.

This is the space I write from now. If it speaks to you, stick around. There’s more to come