#whatmeawrites

[whatmeawrites]

Let Fear Sit Beside You

(but don’t let it speak for you)

Let fear sit beside you— but don’t let it speak for you. Let it watch, but not steer. Let it ache, but not decide.

It can hold your hand in the dark, but it cannot hold the pen. It cannot write your story in the voice of someone who never tried.

Fear will tell you to wait. To soften. To shrink. To build smaller dreams so they hurt less if they break.

But you are not here to be untouched. You are not here to get through life unbruised.

You are here to risk being seen. To love so deeply it echoes. To stand so fully in yourself that even your shaking is holy.

Fear will try to bargain. It will show you every version of what could go wrong— not out of cruelty, but because it thinks protection looks like hesitation.

It will not ask What if you fail? It will ask quieter things, more believable lies— Are you sure? Are you enough? Isn't it too late?

And your answer doesn’t need to be loud. You don’t need to roar. You just need to keep moving, one honest, trembling step at a time. Because nothing true ever came from standing still.

Let fear witness your rising— but never let it edit your light.

You can be afraid and still go on.

You can tremble and still be brave.

Let fear sit beside you. But don’t ever— not even once— let it speak for you.

[whatmeawrites]

After the Storm, You

I gave dating apps one last try.

After so many dead-end conversations, broken promises, and men who didn’t know what they wanted—or maybe they did, just not the same things I was looking for—I was exhausted. Tired of starting over. Tired of opening up. Tired of hoping. The cycle of almosts and maybes, of emotional unavailability and careless behavior, had worn me down.

But for some reason, in the quiet few months of early 2024, I gave dating apps one last chance. Just one more swipe. No expectations.

And then I found you.

You were far away in Bali. I was in Jakarta, juggling work, motherhood, and everyday chaos. Long-distance wasn’t exactly in my plans. But there was something different about you. The way you spoke—warm, thoughtful, present—made me pause. You didn’t rush the conversation. You asked meaningful questions. You actually listened.

And slowly, I let you in.

I gave you space to show up. And you did—consistently, gently, fully. No games. No confusion. Just calm, open-hearted connection.

I still remember the day I decided to visit you. I wasn’t sure what I was walking into, but the moment we met in person, everything just… clicked. There was no awkwardness, no pretense. Just this quiet familiarity, like we’d known each other in a thousand lifetimes before.

You made love feel simple again. Peaceful. Kind. Thoughtful. Steady. After years of carrying the weight of relationships that felt one-sided or uncertain, you gave me the gift of something mutual. Something real.

And now, one year later, I still smile at how it all began—on an app I nearly deleted, in a year I almost gave up.

Sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it enters quietly, like a soft breeze on a heavy day. And when it does, it feels like coming home.

Happy anniversary, my love. Thank you for being my calm after the storm.

[whatmeawrites]

First Post (After Many, Many Years)

It’s been a long time since I wrote here.

Not because I had nothing to say— but because life got loud. Loud with changes, with choices, with moments that demanded presence over reflection.

In the years between posts, life stretched, cracked, softened, and reshaped me. I went through a divorce— not just the end of a marriage, but the quiet unraveling of who I thought I was supposed to be.

I changed jobs— learned to speak new languages in boardrooms, stood taller in rooms I once shrank myself in.

I raised my children— watched them grow into their own edges, watched myself grow beside them.

I let myself fall in love again— not just once. I dared to open. I dared to hope. Some endings came with heartbreak, but not the kind that shatters— the kind that teaches. And somewhere in the quiet after, something (hopefully) real started to take shape.

And somehow— quietly, stubbornly, with more grace than before— I began again.

Not because I had it all figured out. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something deep inside me always knew: I’m not done becoming. Not yet.

This blog is different now.

It’s no longer just a space for family snapshots or curated reflections. It’s a room of my own, where I lay down the words I carry— unpolished, true, and still in progress.

It’s where I write for no one and everyone. For the version of me that needed to hear it five years ago. And maybe, for someone out there who needs it now.

I’m not here to impress. I’m here to witness. To notice. To put language to the in-between.

If you’re reading this—thank you. You’ve met me at the edge of something. Maybe the edge of something in yourself, too.

Welcome back to whatmeawrites. The stories will come soon. But for now, let’s sit here— in this return. In the still-becoming.