Mind & Heart

Mind & Heart: A Journey Through Words

I never thought words could save me. I had always seen poetry as something delicate—flowers pressed between the pages of a notebook, fleeting lines that sounded pretty but didn’t mean much. But when the world started to feel heavy, when mornings became battles and nights stretched endlessly, I found myself turning to the one thing I had ignored: poetry.

It started with a single line:

"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise."

I stumbled upon it on a blog while searching for something—anything—that could make me feel less alone. Something about the simplicity of it, the quiet certainty, stopped me in my tracks. I copied it into a notebook I hadn’t used in years and stared at it for what felt like an eternity.

The next day, I wrote my own line:

"My mind is a storm, but I am still the shore."

It felt strange, writing words that seemed to hold me together instead of tearing me apart. I didn’t know it then, but this small act was the beginning of my resilience.

Over the weeks, poetry became a lifeline. I would sit in the corner of my room, the notebook open on my lap, and spill out thoughts that I couldn’t say aloud. Some were dark:

"Fear coils around me, tight as winter frost. I whisper for spring, but hear only silence."

Others were fragile sparks of hope:

"A single breath, a single step, a single word can be the bridge to tomorrow."

I discovered that writing wasn’t just a way to express my feelings—it was a way to understand them. I could see the patterns in my thoughts, trace the shadows of my fears, and sometimes, even laugh at the absurdity of my worries. Each poem became a mirror, reflecting not only my pain but also my ability to endure it.

One afternoon, I decided to share my work online. My hands shook as I hit "publish." Vulnerability is terrifying, especially when your words feel like bare skin. But the response was nothing I expected. Messages poured in: “Your words describe exactly what I feel.” “I’ve been struggling, and your poem gave me hope.” “You’re not alone. Thank you for sharing.”

It was in that moment I realized something powerful: poetry doesn’t just heal the writer; it heals the reader too. Each poem became a thread, weaving a fragile but unbreakable connection between people who were silently suffering.

Writing also taught me resilience—not the flashy, heroic kind, but the quiet, everyday bravery of living with your mind as it is and your heart as it is, and finding ways to carry on. When anxiety gripped me, I wrote. When sadness descended, I wrote. And when joy finally peeked through the clouds, I wrote again, not to capture it, but to celebrate it.

"I am a river of wounds and wonders, flowing endlessly, finding the sea."

That line became my mantra. I carry it with me on days when the world feels too loud, too chaotic, too unkind. It reminds me that my struggles are part of me, but they do not define me. There is beauty in persistence, strength in vulnerability, and power in simply continuing to breathe, to feel, to write.

Now, when I read my old notebook, I see not just my pain, but my growth. I see a person who fought, word by word, line by line, and found light in the darkest corners of their mind. Poetry didn’t just help me survive—it taught me how to live with courage, compassion, and hope.

If you are struggling today, know this: your mind may be a storm, but you are still the shore. And sometimes, all it takes is one line, one poem, one word, to remind you that the sun will rise again.