Writing, to me, is both a means and an end.

I enjoy the act of writing itself. The art of writing feels no less beautiful to me than painting or composing music. The question is rarely “what should I write about?”, it’s simply to write, and to enjoy the process. There’s something deeply satisfying about using language to articulate ideas, about taking what’s vague or scattered in the mind and giving it form and logic. It’s like clearing away fog and letting thoughts land in their most honest and organised shape. That process brings me an aesthetic joy.

At the same time, writing is a means, an act of meaning-making. While I love writing for its own sake, I also want it to matter. If something fascinates me or moves me to join the conversation, then I feel compelled to write about it. If I care about patriotism, or identity politics, or justice, and I sense there are things that haven’t been said clearly or truthfully, then maybe I’m meant to be the one to write them. Writing, in that way, is participating and sharing, and that’s what gives it meaning.

Writing draws on many things I already carry: emotional sensitivity, intellectual curiosity, reflection, and lived experience. And writing aligns deeply with my values. It gives me a way to explore and express those principles with honesty and intention. This feels like a natural extension of who I’ve always been, now expressed in a more creative form. It’s the kind of work I don’t need to force, as it matches my inner tempo, my love of solitude, and my need for depth.

I feel fortunate that I’m not tied to a single topic or niche in my writing. This flexibility allows me to explore different subjects and earn income from a variety of sources, without feeling like I’m compromising my dream. In this way, writing has become a livelihood, something I genuinely enjoy and that helps me sustain myself.

Some days, the work feels light. Other days, heavy. But it always feels like home. I trust that. And when it feels foggy, I remind myself: I’m still on the path.