My Soul
Every soul, at some point, yearns to complete something that once lit a quiet fire within. I was thirteen when words first found me. Stories and poetry poured from my pen like a river long waiting for rain. At fifteen, I dared to dream bigger — I began writing a novel. But like many tender dreams, it remained unfinished, tucked away between schoolbooks and growing responsibilities. Then came the rush of life. Education demanded my time. Writing slowly slipped away from my fingertips, like sand through a child’s hand at the shore. After marriage, as I left for my husband’s home, I chose not to carry my old diaries — the ones that held my fragile worlds of imagination. Instead, I burned them. Perhaps it was grief. Perhaps it was a quiet farewell to the girl I once was. The years that followed were filled with family, work, and the unyielding rhythm of daily life. I did not think I would ever return to writing. But fate has its own sense of timing. In June 2019, while recoverin...