Then the pandemic broke out. The garrison walls isolated me from the outside world. I lost desired connections. The signs of depression were in my face and I needed to exhaust all my creative resources. Determined to put up a good fight, I asked myself, “What is one useful thing that isolation can offer me?” I decided to revisit the dusty pages of my manuscript and read the first few chapters. Surprisingly disappointed, I saw only a younger version of myself in my writing. My voice had changed. Throwing all the written pages in the trash felt liberating. Behind locked doors, I started writing the story I’d always wanted to tell. I thought that sharing it with my children, family, friends, and anyone who wanted to know me would give closure to my childhood sadness. My first poetry collection depicted my suffering. This time I needed courage to write it in prose, a simple and plain account of what was painful and ugly. Every word took me far… I laughed and cried. I wrote like I had never written before, every single day for six months. I learned forgiveness.
This was my journey to peace. To happiness.