I don’t write for anyone in particular.

Even though many of you have told me that you see pieces of your own experiences in my words.

I don’t write about anyone in particular.

Even when I get inspired by something that happened to me or from the stories I sit with in therapy.

When I do, I do it with care, with reverence and protection of the identities involved, so no one is ever exposed.

I don’t use my writing as a journaling platform for my own healing.

Even though writing has walked beside me through many seasons of pain, grief, and transformation. But that was my private work. And I keep it privately until it becomes a story to be told later on in my life as something that I have processed.

I’ve used writing as a mirror, a grounding practice, a companion, and I often recommend it to my clients as a powerful tool to stay present and process their emotions.

But what I share publicly comes from another place.

A deeper one.

A place of devotion.

My writings come from a passion to give voice to feelings, thoughts, and human experiences that move through me.

Sometimes I feel like I’m simply a channel, receiving, witnessing, translating.

So I do my best to keep that channel clear.

I write to help others remember.

And to let myself not forget.

I give voice to emotions it took me years to process, to sit with, to understand.

I don’t write in the fire of the moment.

I don’t write about things that are unfolding in real time unless they carry a truth that feels necessary, an invitation, a reflection, a gentle call for growth or compassion.

And even then, I write with intention.

Never to harm.

If it ever feels like I’m trying to paint my life as perfect, or wear a mask, know that I am not. I have never pretend to be. I don’t care to impress anyone or beg for attention. I know who I am. And if I doubt sometimes, I pause and reflect more. I pay attention. I question myself. I did that in a not so loving ways many times before. Now I am learning to offer myself more compassion.

But I understand that people project. And that’s okay.

We all see through our own lenses.

What I know is this:

Our experiences are more universal than we think.

We are not so different.

That’s the quiet beauty of this path, we’re all walking each other home.

No one is above anyone.

We all struggle.

We all have our invisible battles.

We all fall.

We all learn how to live the best way we can with what we know at the time.

I’m no exception.

If anything, I carry the weight of my own life and hold the pain of others too.

It’s a sacred responsibility.

But it’s also heavy sometimes.

So when I feel it’s time to let some of that energy move through me,

I write. Because writing is taking out of myself.

I dance. Because for a moment in time I am in the flow and nothing else matters.

I take long walks. Because when I walk my nervous system regulates and I feel calm, energized and inspired.

I listen to music, sometimes the same song on repeat, until I become one with its rhythm.

Making my life beautiful has always been a way of surviving.

A way of becoming good at living.

And I had to peel many layers, pain, loss, anxiety, sadness,

before I could learn how to give myself permission to thrive. Now I am enjoying my life more than before.

I am still learning.

Still healing.

Still trying to accept my scars.

Still practicing compassion.

Still trying to be the best version of myself for those who walk beside me. In my personal or professional relationships.

So my writing is nothing but life expressing through me,

in a way I can hold.

In a way I can share.

In a way that becomes a refuge, an offering, a quiet companion to anyone who may need it.

May these words meet you gently, exactly where you are.

May they remind you that you are not alone.

And may they offer you a little more space to feel, to breathe, and to begin again.

With love,🤍

Aniela

www.MindfulTherapist.us