MY JOURNERY AS A SCRIBE

I fucking love my journey with the pen or maybe these days, it’s more like the tippity tap of the keyboard.

Either way, it’s sacred. It’s saved me.

There’s always been this peaceful solace in pouring out all the emotions swirling in my body the chaos, the noise, the spirals and spilling them down into a journal, a diary, a messy document I’ll probably title “raw_rage_finalFINAL.docx.”

Because when my head gets jumbled, when thoughts bounce around like a bloody Space Invaders game, when the noise becomes so loud I want to curl up in a ball and disappear into a cave.

The only thing that’s ever really helped is writing.

When I was younger, the only emotions I knew how to express out loud were rage, jealousy, resentment… and a deep ache I didn’t have the language for yet.

So to find this other outlet this wild, word soaked lifeline, it was life changing.

More than that. It was soul-saving.

Writing gave me a way to translate my pain into poetry. My rage into rhythm. My silence into sacred storytelling.

And one of my favorite things now?

Going back and reading my older work journal entries, stream of consciousness blogs, voice notes turned captions it’s like travelling in a time machine made of ink and fire.

You can feel the shifts in the tone, the texture of my voice on the page.

You can feel the girl I was, raw and unfiltered, just pouring. No polishing. No pretending. Just my truth.

I can see the seasons of heaviness. The heartbreak, the frustration, the grief that had nowhere else to land but the page.

I can also see the bursts of joy, the wide eyed wonder, the taste of freedom.

Moments where I was remembering myself again, even if just for a heartbeat.

And sometimes I catch myself thinking,

“Why doesn’t my writing hit like it used to?”

But truth is it does.

It just hits differently now.

Because I’m different now.

My voice has matured. My vocabulary has expanded. It’s still me wild, passionate, sharp-tongued me, spilling my guts in whatever way my soul demands.

Here’s the part that gets sticky though…

AI. Yeah, I said it.

It’s wild out here you can feel the soullessness seeping into sales pitches and Instagram captions. Words that look shiny and poetic but have no heartbeat. You can smell the lack of soul.

Here’s the thing: I love what tech can do. I use it. But there’s a massive difference between support and surrender.

If you start handing over your voice, your words, your truth, your stories to someone else (or something else) because you think they’ll polish it better than your raw magic can.

You are outsourcing your power.

You’re giving away the very thing that sets your writing apart your soul.

AI doesn’t feel heartbreak in the womb.

It doesn’t bleed with your loss or burn with your joy. It can’t reach down into your gut and pull out the sacred mess that only you know how to articulate.

So here’s my call:

Let your fingers tip tap across the keys without judgment.

Let the words be ugly, be holy, be unfiltered, be YOU.

And then………share them.

Because when words come from your body, your soul, your messy sacred center, they will be felt.

Deeply.

By the ones meant to receive them.

Souls read souls.

They know when the voice behind the words has been traded for something more “palatable.”

So next time you think about handing your words to someone else.

Don’t.

Pause.

Take a breath.

Write.

Trust that it’s more than enough.

With so much love x