Not because it’s bad (it’s not), or because I’m not proud (oh trust me, I’m bursting with pride—like, “crying in the shower and whispering ‘we did it’” levels of proud). But because it’s personal. Raw. Like-heart-on-the-table-next-to-your-coffee-cup personal.
I didn’t write it for accolades. I didn’t write it to go viral.
I wrote it for me.
And for my inner child—who’s been tugging at my sleeve for years, asking softly, “Can we finally talk about it?”
So we did. Together, we turned silence into poems. Pain into petals. Trauma into tender truth.
And that’s exactly why I’ve been whispering about it instead of screaming it from the mountaintops—even though every cell in my body wants to scream it. Loud. Echo-y. With a fist to the sky.
But then that old ghost inside me asks: “Are you even allowed to take up space?”(And my body whispers “no,” but my spirit is learning to say “hell yes.”)
I know—deep down, beneath the fear and the people-pleasing—that this book might resonate with someone. Maybe with you. Because the truth is: I’m not alone in this. And neither are you.
But still... I’ve been gatekeeping my own book.
Why? Because I’m scared.
Scared of being seen. Scared of being misunderstood.
Scared of what my parents might think (spoiler alert: it talks about childhood emotional trauma).
Scared no one will read it.
Scared someone will.
I keep thinking I’ve outrun the trauma loop—and then BAM, life throws me another plot twist. But I’m done shrinking. I’m done whispering.
This book is my love letter to myself—and maybe to you too. It’s something I can hold when I feel like I’m falling apart. A reminder that healing isn’t linear. That taking up space is brave. That “looking fine” isn’t the same as being fine. And that just because someone can’t find the words doesn’t mean the pain isn’t real.
I’ve thought about starting a blog, a website, maybe even a YouTube channel. But then I get stuck. Because when I do things for others, I lose myself. And I’ve already deleted one blog this year for that exact reason.
I want to create from a place of joy, not exhaustion. Of authenticity, not obligation. Of me—messy, magical, and still learning.
So.
This is me doing something that absolutely terrifies me:
Sharing my book with you.
It feels like standing on a cliff’s edge, butterflies in my stomach throwing a rave, not knowing if I’ll fly or face-plant. But here’s the thing: I’m jumping anyway.
My book is called:
“Water Your Garden and Watch Your Mind Bloom” a collection of poems inspired by nature to remind you—you are enough, you are strong, and you are healing.(Yes, the title is a little extra. So am I 😅)
It’s independently published. Environmentally friendly (print-on-demand!).
Ships worldwide. Might take a little longer to arrive—but hey, good things are worth waiting for.
You can find it here:
Amazon (UK) [link]
Amazon (DE) [link]
Amazon (US) [link]
Barnes & Noble [link]
I’m not here to hustle you. I’m not here to sell a brand. I’m here to open a door.
If you think this book could help you—or someone you love—read it. Share it. Gift it. Let it be a starting point for a conversation we’ve all avoided for far too long.
Let’s stop being silent about childhood trauma, about mental health, about healing.
This book is my beginning. Maybe it can be yours, too.
Here are a few pictures of the book and some poems inside. Some are inspired by nature. Some by BTS. All of them are rooted in the hope that we can grow something beautiful from the mess.
And if you do decide to support me—thank you.
But more than anything, I hope you do it for you 💕
Before we begin, a gentle warning: this post touches on some heavy topics—self-harm, suicide, childhood trauma, and mental health. If these are tender places for you, please take care of yourself first. You don’t have to read this. You come first. Always.
The breaking
I wish I could say there was one reason I left, one singular thing that cracked me open and made me disappear. But life isn’t that neat, is it? It was everything, all at once—the weight of low engagement, the endless comparisons, the silent echoes in the spaces where I hoped for connection. It was the exhaustion of always lifting others while I crumbled beneath my own hands, the way I’d pour and pour and pour until my cup was bone-dry.
I’ve never been good at putting myself first. So I did something drastic. I erased myself. I deleted my blog. And even though I know I needed to do it, even though I was drowning—it still stings. Because I know I disappointed people. Because I felt like I failed.
But sometimes, you have to lose yourself to find yourself again.
The staying (or at least, the blog is)
Fifteen years. That’s how long my original blog existed (RIP, old friend). It was a part of me, woven into my story. And even when I stepped away, I still felt the pull—the whisper of unfinished business. I missed the good parts, the warmth, the shared love for stories. And most of all, I felt like I owed it to you—to the people who found pieces of themselves in my words—to keep those stories alive, even if I wasn’t always here to tend to them.
I don’t know if I’ll be active. I don’t know if I’ll post new things. The same reasons that made me leave still sit heavy on my chest sometimes. But I’ve learned something in all of this: healing isn’t a straight path. It isn’t a neat little checklist where you wake up one day and—boom!—all better. It’s messy. It’s cyclical. Some days I feel invincible, and some days I feel like a ghost haunting my own life.
I’m staying, but I’m staying on my own terms.
The healing
Here’s the scariest part: I don’t really know who I am. I don’t know where I begin and where my trauma ends. For so long, I’ve been a collection of survival tactics, stitched together with coping mechanisms and old wounds. I’ve been the person who tries to fix everything—people, situations, the cracks in the universe itself—because maybe if I can make others happy, I can be happy too.
But that’s not how healing works.
And I want to heal. I want to love without needing to be needed. I want to give without emptying myself. I want to exist simply because I deserve to exist—not because I think I have to prove my worth to anyone.
In my time away, I rediscovered something that’s been a lifeline: poetry. I wrote my pain into verses, shaped my grief into something tangible, something outside of me. And somewhere in that process, I found a little light. Enough light to choose to stay. Enough light to call my doctor that day instead of following through with a plan I had convinced myself was necessary. Enough light to realize that I don’t actually want to die—I just want the pain to stop.
And now, I want to live. Fully, wholly, authentically. I want to love my husband and my kids the way I needed to be loved as a child. I want to keep giving—but from a place of joy, not from a place of depletion. I want to share, not because I need validation, but because I already know I am enough.
So if I pop in and out, know that it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I am taking care. Of myself. Of the little girl inside me who deserved softness, but never got it. Of the future version of me who deserves to be whole.
To you, with Love
If you’ve read this far—thank you. Truly.
If you are struggling, if you carry trauma, if your mind feels like a storm you can’t escape—please, please know: you are not alone. Even in a crowded room, even when it feels like no one sees you—I promise, someone does. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I am here (or on Discord, same username).
Thank you for being here.
For reading my stories, for sitting with my words,
for meeting me in the quiet corners of this space.
Thank you for making this place feel like home,
even if only for a fleeting moment.
To my moots—
you’ve been lights in the fog,
flickers of warmth in cold hours.
I’ve met some beautiful souls here,
and I carry you with me—
more deeply than you may ever know.
Even if we no longer speak,
even if we drifted like tide and shore,
please know:
you mattered.
You matter.
The light you gave me—
I hold it close,
a lantern for the darker nights to come.
It’s hard to say goodbye to something that held my heart so tenderly.
But lately, it feels like I’m only able to tell stories
the way old scars speak—
softly, painfully, in echoes.
And I don’t know if this space is still the place
where that kind of truth belongs.
I feel too much—
always have.
Everything rushes in like waves that never stop breaking.
And the past,
the hurt,
it keeps finding me.
So for now, I have to pause.
Maybe indefinitely.
Maybe not.
I wondered if I should just vanish quietly.
Disappear into the silence,
let the light dim without a word.
But you deserved more than that.
Thank you for your time,
for your tears,
for your laughter.
Thank you for letting me reach you,
however briefly.
I’ll cradle the memories we made here
with love that doesn’t fade.
Letting go of this blog hurts.
Letting go of you hurts.
Please know that.
I’m not deleting anything—my stories will remain.
But I’ve let go of my Discord account.
I need distance,
and a little peace.
Thank you, truly.
For everything.
You don’t have to worry about me.
I’m not okay,
but that’s okay.
I made it! I’ve re-uploaded all my fics, and let me tell you—I won’t delete them or my account again (it was such a pain to re-upload and it took me like three days 😭).
When inspiration hits (which it already has), I’ll be working on my WIPs and whenever I’m done I’ll upload both here and on my AO3.
I was a bit anxious about coming back, because I felt embarrassed… I left so suddenly without a word, and here I am, back after a couple of months. I feel a bit like a clown, but I’ll try not to focus on that 🤡
I have missed you so, so much—and thank you too all you guys who have already written me warm and sweet messages 🫂 I don’t even know what to say?! I just wanted to say that I really really appreciate all of you so fucking much, I adore you to pieces and I want all the good things for you in this world ✨
Thank you for still being here, and for joining me again 🥹🫂🌻
Just popping in with an update. (Casual. Normal. Definitely not emotionally loaded at all.)
I’m trying. I really am. I know it might not look like it—and honestly, sometimes it feels like I’m failing in real time—but I am trying. I’m struggling more than I like to admit, and that’s just the truth of it. I have so much love for this space, but damn, it’s hard to exist here when I feel like I’ve burned bridges I can’t fix. I guess I’ll carry that pain with me like I do everything else. Please don’t feel bad for me—I’m very familiar with my own disappointment by now.
I’ve tried working on my remaining fics and… fuck, it’s hard. Everything feels forced, like I’m chasing a version of myself that isn’t showing up right now. And that frustrates me deeply, because I miss writing traumatic comedy fics 🥹 Maybe the spark will come back one day. I hope it does.
Right now, I’m focusing on my second book. Still not the fantasy novel (which I might scrap entirely because I don’t want to write something that feels like it already exists—even if that technically means there’s a market for it). Instead, I’m staying with poetry. Always poetry. Even though hardly anyone reads it (okay—a few of you do, and I see you). I’m hoping to publish it later this year. Hopefully. I’m trying to move slowly this time and not hyperfocus myself into the ground like I did with the first book.
This one is… rawer. And I can’t constantly tap into my worst, saddest feelings without completely wrecking myself, so it’s taking time. I’m layering in humor, anger, and a very specific fuck-you-ish energy. I’m excited to hold it in my hands someday—and also convinced no one will buy it 😂 (I do genuinely believe this, even though it also makes me sad. Two things can coexist.)
Mentally? Still kind of a dumpster fire. I am trying to get help, but the healthcare system in my country is… UGH. Apparently I’m not “sick enough” because I’m “too capable” 😭 as if they don’t see how many days it takes me to recover after socializing, or how often I just cry because I can’t do this shit anymore. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of asking for help and not getting it. Tired of researching everything myself while overstimulated, depressed, suicidal, and feeling like I’m drowning every single day.
Somehow, mental healthcare has become my accidental special interest—and weirdly, the thing keeping me afloat. I’m so angry about how gatekept it is that I’ve been playing with the idea of creating a free resource website focused on autism, ADHD, and C-PTSD, built entirely from everything I’ve learned on my own journey. No paywalls. No bullshit. Just help.
If you’ve made it this far—thank you. Truly. You’re a gem, and I adore you 🫂 I’m sorry for not being around more. I am still here. I still want to try. I just can’t promise consistency. If you want to talk to me, feel free to ask for my Discord—I’m almost always there.
I hope you got BTS tickets this year, and that good things find you wherever you are 💐
I’ll probably peek in from time to time. Thank you for continuing to support me, and—honestly—for giving me reasons to stay.
I am still working on Words on a Page and something for The Winter Collection, and I just finished a small drabble that I might post soon (I’m SCARED, cus it’s with Jungkook). I’m also slowly (very slowly) working through ideas for the reading library. Everything moves at a snail’s pace… except when my hyperfocus kicks in 🙃
Please be patient with me. I really am trying 🥹
I’ll leave you with a small poem from the book:
The world tells me
to breathe deeper,
but it is the weight
of its demands
that crushes my chest.
I am not short of air.
I am carrying too much.
And now,
I let myself
set some of it down.
I know it’s been some time since the whole “want to go back to the old tumblr vibes” and I’m still there, lol. I’ve been having ideas and I’ve been trying to figure out how to go about it. I truly do miss it here.
Tumblr was part of the thing that kept me alive in some of my darkest times—-and I want to honor that, and bring that back. Also. I miss my friends and my moots 🥹
I’ve remade my discord in case you want to talk, or yell at me for being stupid and dramatic enough to delete it in the first place (oh how I wish I hadn't deleted it, but I’m older and wiser now).
My username is still @kingofbodyrolls because I’m unoriginal like that.
Also.
If anyone wants to play ffxiv with me, hit me up! It’s basically my second home 😂
(I’m really trying to come back more, while still honoring my mental health, while also realizing that this might actually help make my mental health better, so I’m giving it a try okay. Please be kind (when are you not???))
Just came back on here to check on a friend because of the tsunami warnings going off in most places of the world. Saw that a lot of you have checked in and left me sweet messages, that I feel like I don't deserve at all 😭
And when I said I wanted "space and time for myself" that was a big fat lie. That was just me being my triggered self retreating, doing my normal "I'll abandon them first dance" and then "I hope someone reach out to me..." (childhood trauma here, because I used to cry alone in my room and no one came...) but I just wanted someone to come, sit with me and understand me 🥺 I still do that. I am still that sad and scared little kid. I don't want be alone, but I'm scared that people will leave me... So I leave them first 😭
Just wanted to say... I'm doing a bit better. I'm feeling very stressed with life, but mentally I'm doing okay. I'll check all my notes later and respond to everyone of you 🫂💕
I... I'm sorry. Truly. I do not know what I did to derseve so many sweet and lovely people to care about silly old me 😭
I’m still here, hanging on by the edges. The aftermath of my suicide attempt is a dull, heavy thing that follows me around like winter; depression is the weather. My son was recently diagnosed with autism, I’m still waiting for my own diagnosis, I’m learning to set boundaries with my dad, and honestly—everything else—all of it is piled up in my arms at once. It’s fucking exhausting.
But I’m still here. I always have been the one who fights her way back, step by step, because what else is there to do? An old friend told me once to put one foot in front of the other—that’s the map I’m following, hoping there’s a clearing ahead.
My mood tilts without warning. Some days I’m small and soft; other days I’m a fury I didn’t know I had. I miss people I drifted away from—I think I abandoned them before I even knew how to stay. Imagine a tiny graveyard of friendships I couldn’t hold for three decades. It’s gruesome and kind of funny in that sad way.
Advocating for myself is uphill. The mental health system feels like a maze that was never built for someone like me, and sometimes I want to throw my hands up and stop trying altogether. But then I remember the small things I’m trying to find again: a cup of tea that tastes like a little victory, a sentence that lands right in a notebook, the way light looks on an afternoon I didn’t ruin.
I think I found my anger—thank god? I was never allowed to be angry as a kid. Anger used to scare me because it felt disloyal to the “nice” version of me. Now it’s a compass. It says when something’s wrong. I used to shove that voice down with everything else. I’m listening now. It’s helping me pull at the seams and find out who I actually am beneath all the performed smiles and pleases.
I’m not around much here because I’m afraid. Afraid of the guilt for ghosting people, afraid of falling into the vanity of likes and followers. It doesn’t help me, so I keep my distance. Still—I do want to share a win: I finished a new fic. A whole Jimin series. It needs editing, and I won’t promise a date—it’ll appear when it’s ready. That’s how it goes with me.
If you read this: please be kind to yourself. You are loved, even when you feel like a ghost 🌷🫂
—I’m messy, I’m angry, I’m trying. And I’m still writing.
