The growth is in the struggle.

It’s excruciating. The emotions bubble just beneath the surface, brimming at the very rim of my being. It feels almost impossible to hold them back. Tears are millimeters away from flooding my eyes, like a tide that knows no boundary, waiting for the slightest trigger to break free.

When I sense deeper, it gets more complex—an almost magical mix of fear, love, loss, regret. There is deep pain braided with a fragile thread of shining hope. It’s not a simple emotion; it’s a constellation, each star burns with its own story. I feel untethered, floating in a space where I am blind to everything beyond myself. Lost, not in the absence of direction, but in the overwhelming presence of too much. Can I even do this?

It takes courage to write words. Courage to face the blank page, knowing I don’t know how, trusting that I will learn. The tension in my head is crushing, pressing against the walls of my mind. Beneath it all lies the fear of judgment, the terror of rejection. Not just from others, but from myself. The question echoes: Is this all imagined? Or is it real? It feels real. It was real once—distant glimmers of the past flickering in the dark corridors of my memory.

Breathe.

Return.

Create space.

Connect to your heart and soul.

Feel the love in your body, not as an abstract idea, but as something real. Let it flow without agenda, without needing to become anything more than what it is.

And then, something shifts. The feelings fade, not into nothingness, but into white, into spaciousness. The lostness doesn’t disappear, but it transforms. It turns into possibility. Suddenly, all directions are okay. All words are invited. They don’t have to be perfect; they just have to be true, or at least true enough for now. Welcome them all.

This is my experience of writing.

And it’s one I fear we are losing.

I scroll through LinkedIn and Facebook, flooded by posts filled with shortcuts, tips, hacks, AI-generated scripts. People creating entire series of podcasts or blog posts with minimal effort, unable to distinguish whether what they’ve written is true or just plausible. It’s not the tools that bother me; it’s what we risk forgetting. The backward revolution isn’t in the technology it’s in the abandonment of the struggle, the sacred wrestling with words that refuses to be automated.

But that’s not the real loss.

I know that my self-written, sometimes AI-coached work serves something far greater than what others feel or learn from reading it. The act of writing itself is the point. It’s a pilgrimage of identity. A sacred journey, not to arrive somewhere specific, but to discover who I am along the way. To find new landscapes within myself I didn’t know existed.

Writing is not just expression; it is transformation.

It’s how I create new awareness, forge unexpected connections.

A new future emerges—not because I wrote it, but because I lived through the act of writing it.

And it isn’t supposed to be easy, even though sometimes it is.

The ease, when it comes, feels like flow.

But the struggle... that’s where the alchemy happens.

It’s in the moments when no words come, or when the wrong words show up like unwelcome guests. But often, those wrong words are the ones that guide me somewhere new. They’re not dead ends, they’re signposts. They provoke, disrupt, demand attention. They force me to dig deeper, to question, to reimagine. In that struggle, there is opportunity.

On the other side, after wrestling with the chaos and contradiction, there’s growth. Not just in my writing, but in my being.

When it gets tough sometimes the work isn’t to push through, but simply to be with the toughness. To sit in the discomfort without flinching. To listen. To trust that something is taking shape, even if I can’t see it yet.

This, to me, is fulfillment.

Not the polished words on the page, but the raw, messy, beautiful process of evolving.