Am I Writing to Find Myself or to Prove I Exist?

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What does it mean to write?

As a poet, a writer, a student, a woman — well, honestly, I don’t know. I simply and physically cannot answer that question. Writing to me feels like the one thing I can never quite own, constantly slipping through my fingers like the sticky slime I used to construct for fun — funny how hobbies change. Writing, poetry to be specific, is like a sense of pride that I have the creative capability to construct such flowing words into melodies. But at the same time, it’s something so generic that someone else, maybe even a better writer, has probably already constructed. It’s a fragile connection to myself, like holding onto something precious that might disappear if I let that slip — will I vanish? And if so, what would be left behind to commemorate me? That’s right. Nothing…

Writing is both my escape and my home. It’s where I feel most real and raw, and yet sometimes it’s where I question if I even am real at all, or if I’m an imposter playing Shakespeare.

There was a time when I thought I had to let go of writing, when it felt like the world was telling me that there was no space for it. Forensic science called me — the logic, the facts, the clean, sharp lines of perfection, not how poetry morphs and bends into whatever you desire. It seemed like the world needed me to pick between the two: a career in STEM or literature. And funny enough, I felt more expressive through my literature. Even typing this, I’m sat in my cozy Kuromi bedsheets with my purple LED lights blaring into the side of my scalp — just listening to the rhythm of my fingers slashing the keys puts me at ease. No, actually, it’s the relief that I’m getting these words onto a page, knowing that someone, anyone will read this and connect with me on a deeper level. Writing felt almost like a side note, like me when I used to be the last one picked by my classmates when making teams/groups — an indulgence, something that could wait. So, I put it away. I watched it drift away, like something I couldn’t hold onto anymore. My hands were filled with nothing.

But over time, something inside me began to ache. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good at forensic science — no, it was the silence that constantly followed. My words stopped flowing, and with them, so did a part of me. I didn’t realize until it was too late that writing wasn’t just something I did — it was who I was. I FELT LOST. I felt invisible. And in that silence, I asked myself, “What was the point? Am I even meant to be here? Can I truly be without my words?”

Summer 2024 came around, and I finally picked up my pen again — not to impress, not to prove anything, but to survive. I created a small poetry account, a space to pour myself out, to be raw, to be vulnerable. The first time I shared my poem, I held my breath, waiting for the silence that haunted me. But then something happened. A like. A comment. And I realized, for the first time in a long while, that I wasn’t just talking into a void. There were people, real people, who heard me. I wasn’t invisible.

That feeling — the feeling of being heard — shook me. It made me wonder if maybe this is why I write. Maybe I’m writing to find myself, to understand the chaos in my head and make sense of the things I’ve hidden away. Or maybe I’m writing to prove that I exist, that I have a voice in this world that so often ignores quiet people like me, or the way I have been pushed aside for my overly kind personality, which seemed “overly fake.” I don’t know. Maybe it’s both. Maybe my words are a way to find myself while also fighting against the fear that one day I’ll be forgotten, that everything I feel and think will slip through the cracks without a trace.

As a Somali woman, I grew up in a culture where emotions and mental health were rarely discussed. Silence was a heavy weight we carried, a shield we used to protect ourselves from vulnerability. In my community, speaking about struggles, especially emotional ones, was seen as weakness — something to be avoided, swept under the rug. The stigma around mental illness and the pressure to present a strong, stoic face made it difficult to even acknowledge the inner turmoil I felt. So, for years, I suppressed my feelings, not knowing how to express the chaos in my mind. That’s part of why writing, especially poetry, felt like such a forbidden thing — like I was breaking an unspoken rule, giving voice to things that weren’t meant to be heard. It wasn’t until I took that first step back into writing that I realized how much of my silence had shaped me, how much I’d been carrying without ever speaking a word about it.

Maybe writing is how I carve my existence into something permanent, like the quick hardening of concrete — wanting to be engraved somewhere, to stand tall forever. I refuse to be erased so easily. Maybe it’s how I make a home for myself in a world that can’t seem to see me. It’s not about fame or recognition, or some stupid grand legacy — no, that isn’t me. It’s about being heard, about knowing that someone, somewhere, has felt what I’ve felt, seen the world through my eyes, my lens, my brain, even if it’s for a brief moment, a glimpse.

Maybe that’s all we can hope for — to be seen, to be heard. Because that’s what I crave: a place, to leave a mark that says I’m here. I’m alive and well.

I’m so proud.

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