A Place for the Unfinished

The Truth That Keeps Me

It’s a coffee-stained page
shoved in a backpack,
creased and smudged,
scribbled between errands and exhaustion.
The kind of moment no one sees—
but the kind that saves me.

I don’t write for applause.
I write because it’s how I stay connected—
to the day I just lived,
to the version of me, I’m trying to become,
to the truth, I can’t afford to lose.

Most days, it’s not poetic.
It’s messy. Incomplete.
But even in fragments, it’s where I feel most whole.
It catches what might otherwise slip through.
It gives shape to the thoughts I’d rather avoid,
and still makes room for the hope I’m not ready to name.

Writing doesn’t expect polish.
It just asks me to show up.

Writing doesn’t expect balance—it creates it.
It steadies what my body can’t.
It levels what feels tilted.
It lets me breathe when the rest of life demands holding it in.

This isn’t performance. It’s presence.
It’s the place I am most aware.
Worn in some places, filled in others.
Not regretful—but responsible.
I carry memory like a map, not a weight.

And sure—
there are pages I’ve wanted to burn.
Days I’ve wanted to erase.
Versions of myself I’d rather forget.
But I don’t.
Because even the worst chapters carried a line I needed.
Even the messiest margins taught me something about what I could survive.
I need those pages—not to glorify them,
but to understand how far I’ve come.

Writing is how I stay.
Humble. Open. Present.
It’s how I reflect without spinning.
How I breathe deep enough to trust.
How I sleep when nothing else quiets the weight of a day done well—or not.

It’s not just a habit.
It’s a mirror I need, even when I don’t like what I see.
A conversation with the version of myself still trying, still learning, still here.

Because the pen doesn’t flinch.
It holds the truth even when I can’t.
It shows me the choices I made, the ones I avoided,
and the courage I’m still learning to name out loud.

I reread my words because I’ve lived them.
I write what wrecks and rebuilds.
I let the page hold the tension—so I can move through it.

A place for the unfinished-
rooted in the real,
accountable to truth,
anchored in who I was,
who I am,
and who I’m becoming.
But still open. Still forming.
Still free to shape, to stretch, to hope.

Not just alive—
grateful.

And if you’re here—reading, reflecting, wrestling with your own unpolished pages—
you’re not behind, you’re becoming.
You don’t need to have it all together to take up space here.
You just have to keep showing up. That’s what makes it sacred.

This space is yours, too