My journey to writing has been a bumpy one,  marked by multiple stop-starts, long silences, and quiet returns.

It began in childhood, with an overly creative imagination and a tendency to drift into inner worlds. Words became companions early on. Poetry followed soon after, especially in the throes of early teenage love, when everything felt heightened, dramatic, and tender.

Life, as it does, moved forward.

There were decades of study. Professional training. Clinical rooms. Real stories. Real people. Real consequences. The romantic intensity of youth gave way to the layered realities of adulthood.

And yet — the instinct to write never disappeared.

It simply waited.

Now, with experience under my belt, with professional depth and lived understanding, it feels time to return to the page — not as the girl in love with love, but as the woman and professional who understands its complexity.

This is not a beginning from scratch.
It is a continuation.

A returning.

And perhaps, finally, a settling into voice.