I Learned to Breathe Through Paper

by [Hazrat ali]

I never thought a pen could keep me alive.

Not in the literal sense—of course not. But when the world around me collapsed like a poorly built house in an earthquake of grief and confusion, I reached for a pen, not a person. I reached for paper when I couldn’t reach for air.

It began with silence.

Not the kind that brings peace, but the heavy kind. The kind that sits on your chest like a stone while everyone around you keeps talking about things that don’t matter—weather, bills, traffic—while your insides are screaming.

When my father died, the world didn’t pause.

The morning after the funeral, I woke up to birds chirping and the distant hum of life continuing outside my window. I remember feeling angry that the world dared to move forward. Didn’t it know he was gone? Didn’t it understand that something sacred had disappeared?

That day, I picked up a cheap spiral notebook and started writing. Not because I had anything profound to say, but because I couldn’t say anything at all.

My first words were ugly.

They weren’t poetic. They weren’t wise. They were raw and jagged, like glass under skin. I wrote, “I hate that he's gone. I hate everyone who still smiles.” Then I scratched it out. Then I wrote it again.

And suddenly, I could breathe—just a little.

The paper didn’t argue. The paper didn’t offer empty clichés. It didn’t tell me to “be strong” or “move on.” It let me pour out my confusion, rage, fear, and sorrow, and it didn’t flinch.

That notebook became my oxygen mask.

When anxiety gripped me so tightly that I couldn’t speak, I wrote. When nights stretched too long and sleep became impossible, I wrote. When I sat in crowded rooms feeling lonelier than ever, I wrote.

I didn’t write for an audience. I didn’t care about grammar or structure or spelling. I wrote like my life depended on it—because in many ways, it did.

There was a night, months later, when I couldn’t stop shaking.

No real trigger. Just the accumulated weight of pretending to be okay for too long. I remember sitting on my bedroom floor, holding that same notebook. My tears blurred the ink as I wrote, “Please, someone see me.”

And then, quietly, I wrote a second line: “I see you.”

That changed everything.

Writing wasn’t just about purging the pain—it became a conversation with myself. A lifeline. A mirror. A space where I was allowed to be broken and still worthy of love.

I filled one notebook, then another.

I wrote letters to people I never intended to send. I wrote poems I was too embarrassed to read aloud. I wrote apologies to myself for all the times I didn’t listen to what I needed. And through it all, I began to heal—not quickly, not perfectly, but truthfully.

Each word was a breath.

Each sentence, a step toward light.

Each page, a safe space carved from chaos.

Some days I still suffocate.

The grief sneaks in like fog, uninvited and unwelcome. But now I have a place to go when I can’t breathe. I have my pen, my paper, my rhythm. I inhale hurt and exhale honesty.

Eventually, I started showing people what I wrote. Not all of it—some things are still sacred—but just enough to realize I wasn’t the only one gasping for air. Others read my words and said, “Me too.” And in that moment, writing became more than survival—it became connection.

We are all trying to breathe in a world that sometimes forgets how.

Some do it through music. Others through painting, dancing, praying.

Me?

I learned to breathe through paper.

And every time I pick up a pen, I remind myself:

There is still air in this world.

There is still space for my voice.

There is still healing in the simple act of telling the truth.

So I write.

Not because the pain is gone, but because I’ve learned how to live beside it.

I write to remember.

I write to release.

I write because it saved me once.

And because it might save me again.

The paper listens. The ink understands. And in that quiet, sacred space—I finally can breathe.

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