On Why I’m Starting a Blog

And I know how strange that sounds, considering how much of my life has been shaped by it. I have followers. I’ve gone viral. I’ve watched numbers rise. I’ve seen my face or my words travel places I never imagined.

But I’ve also felt myself vanish a little with each click, each view, each performance of a self that never felt fully mine. What people often don’t see is that I never set out to be visible. Not like this. In fact, the more people follow me, the more I withdraw. There’s something about being witnessed at scale that makes me want to disappear. To fold inwards. To become quiet again.

I used to feel at home online. When I was younger, lonelier, braver in a different way. I had a blog—on Tumblr—where I wrote everything I felt. It was an online diary, but it felt like a friend. Or maybe like a version of me who could speak freely. I had no one back then. I had left the country. Left all my friends, all the familiarity I grew up with. I didn’t have WhatsApp. No one around me really used Facebook, not under their real names anyway. It was a strange sort of silence. A disconnection. But I had this blog, and the words kept me company. They helped me make sense of the strangeness.

Later, I found Instagram. At first, it was just a visual diary. I posted photos of light falling through windows, messy breakfasts, clouds that looked like they were trying to say something. I found beauty in tiny things. I still do. But people started following. I spoke more. They listened. And then it started to feel different. Like I was on a stage I never meant to walk onto. Everyone had something to say—about what I said, about how I looked, about how I felt. Even strangers who didn’t know me at all, who didn’t want to. And I—I didn’t like that.

So I disappeared. For a while.

When I returned, it was like coming back to a house that no longer felt like home. I was more careful, more professional, more filtered. I only spoke when I was sure. I only shared what I felt was useful, or polished, or necessary. I kept the vulnerable parts of me tucked away, out of sight. I’ve been doing that for a while now. But it’s not enough. I miss having a place to write like I used to. Not because it might perform well or reach more people—but because I need to. Because I still have things to say, and I want to say them in my own voice, in my own time.

I’m tired of pouring myself into 140 characters and bracing for backlash. I’m tired of needing to attach a video, a trending sound, and a beauty filter to be heard. I’m tired of apologizing for being misunderstood. For being human. For thinking out loud.

I’m not saying I’m leaving those platforms forever. I still exist there, in fragments. But I want a place that doesn’t belong to the algorithm. A place that feels like mine. A quiet corner. A room of my own.

This blog is that room. It’s not a stage, and it’s not a performance. If you’re here, it’s because you wanted to be. You chose this. And that means more to me than I can explain. So this is my little digital home. I’m opening the door. I’m lighting a candle. I’m putting the kettle on. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I hope I can be myself here. Fully. Gently. Comfortably.