Writing Saved Me: How I Found Myself Between the Lines

I didn’t plan to become a writer. I didn’t think my words mattered enough. But when life unraveled—when my dreams collapsed and silence filled the space they left behind—writing was the only thing that made sense.

It started small. A journal entry here, a note to myself there. I didn’t write to impress anyone. I wrote to survive. To untangle the storm inside my mind. And slowly, through every word, I stitched together a new version of myself—one that didn’t need a diploma to feel worthy, one that didn’t need to be perfect to be powerful.

My First Pages: A Diary and a Safe Place

Writing has been quietly walking beside me for most of my life. When I was a teenager, I had a personal diary that became my closest companion. Every evening, I would pour my thoughts into its pages—stories, dreams, fears, and emotions I couldn’t share with anyone else. That little book knew all my secrets. It listened when no one else could. It was my best friend, my therapist, my mirror.

Looking back now, I realize that those early moments—pen in hand, heart on paper—were my first steps as a writer. Not for the world, but for myself.

How Writing Returned When the World Stopped

Years later, in 2019, writing quietly returned—just when I needed it most. The world had come to a halt with the pandemic. The silence outside gave me space to look inward, and something in me remembered the peace I once found in words.

I stumbled across a few online copywriting courses, and something sparked. I started to write again—not just for myself this time, but to learn, to grow, to maybe share something meaningful. But the road wasn’t smooth. I put my early pieces out there and was quickly met with criticism. Some of it helped, but most of it stung. It felt like being told I wasn’t enough, again.

For a while, I stopped writing. I questioned whether my voice was worth hearing at all.

Writing, Reimagined in a New Language

In 2022, life shifted once more. I moved to Switzerland to study at a prestigious university. It was everything I had worked for. And yet again, writing followed me—this time, in a completely different form.

Now, I was writing in English. Academic essays. Term papers. Research articles. Writing became part of my daily life, a tool for analysis and communication. At first, I struggled. English wasn’t my first language, and expressing complex ideas felt overwhelming.

But slowly, something amazing happened. I found my voice again—stronger, sharper, more confident. Even in formal assignments, I discovered rhythm and creativity. Writing helped me connect not just with the material, but with myself.

Losing the Dream—and Reclaiming My Voice

Then came the fall. After failing one of my major exams twice, I was excluded from the university. The dream I had built in Switzerland crumbled. Once again, I lost my direction—and my voice. My writing ambitions disappeared with my confidence. I stopped creating. I stopped believing in what I had to say.

But life has a way of pushing us toward truth.

Eventually, I changed everything. I left Switzerland. I returned home. I changed the company I worked for, the people I surrounded myself with, even my lifestyle. And in that shift, something inside me reopened.

I realized I had so much to say—so many thoughts, memories, stories, emotions, and dreams. I understood that my journey wasn’t something to be ashamed of. It was something worth sharing. A real story, a personal one. A story full of funny moments, painful lessons, lifehacks, and dreams.

That’s when I decided to start writing again—not just for myself, but for others who might see themselves in my words. I created a blog. I found Vocal, and it felt like the right place to begin. A place where I could build a small book about my life, one story at a time.

Now, every story I share is written straight from the heart. It’s not about perfection. It’s about truth. It’s about healing. And it’s about giving others permission to do the same.

Conclusion: Writing as Home

Writing didn’t just save me—it brought me home to myself. It reminded me that I am more than my failures, more than my doubts, more than what other people expect of me.

So if you’ve lost your way, if your voice feels small or shaky, if the world around you feels like it’s closing in—don’t give up.

Pick up the pen. Open a blank page. You don’t need anyone’s permission to begin.

Because sometimes, the most powerful stories are the ones we write to remind ourselves that we’re still here—and we still matter.