I never expected poetry to become part of my life. For years, it felt like something that belonged to other people, people who had the right words, the right confidence, the right kind of life. I didn’t see myself in any of that. I didn’t think I had anything worth saying, and even if I did, I didn’t believe anyone would want to hear it.
But life has a way of placing weight on your shoulders quietly. A comment here. A disappointment there. A moment you never talk about. A feeling you never name. Over time, those small things gather, and before you realise it, you’re carrying far more than you ever agreed to hold.
For years, I lived with that weight. Not enough to break me, but enough to bend me. Enough to make me feel older than I was. Enough to make me tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix. I learned to hide it well. I learned to smile through it. I learned to act like everything was fine because the alternative, admitting I wasn’t, felt dangerous.
So I built myself into someone who looked steady. Someone who didn’t flinch. Someone who didn’t need anything from anyone. But the truth is, that version of me was armour. And armour gets heavy.
How Alcohol Became My Escape
My relationship with alcohol didn’t begin with chaos. It began quietly, the same way the weight did. At first, it was just a way to take the edge off after long days that drained more out of me than I ever admitted. A few drinks to quiet the noise. A few more to soften the thoughts I didn’t want to face.
But coping mechanisms have a way of becoming habits, and habits have a way of becoming something darker when you’re already carrying too much. I didn’t drink to celebrate. I drank to disappear. I drank to mute the parts of me I didn’t know how to handle. I drank because silence felt dangerous, and alcohol made the silence easier to survive.
You tell yourself you’re fine. You tell yourself you’re in control. You tell yourself you can stop whenever you want.
Until the day you realise you can’t.
The Nights That Hurt More Than They Helped
There were nights when drinking didn’t numb anything, it amplified it. Nights when the thoughts I’d been avoiding came back sharper, louder, harder to outrun. Nights when I hurt myself because I didn’t know what else to do with the pain I’d been carrying for years.
I’m not going into detail here, not because I’m hiding it, but because I don’t want to turn pain into spectacle. What matters is this: I reached a point where I didn’t recognise myself. A point where the person I was becoming scared me more than the things I was trying to escape.
That was the moment I knew something had to change.
The First Words That Saved Me
One night, not dramatic, not special, just another evening where everything felt too heavy, I picked up my phone and typed a few lines. Not a poem. Not something meant to be shared. Just words. Raw. Unfiltered. Honest.
It was the first real thing I’d said in a long time.
Those lines turned into more lines. Those lines turned into truths I’d never spoken. Those truths turned into poems, not because I wanted to be a poet, but because writing became the only place where I didn’t have to pretend.
Poetry gave me a language for things I’d spent years avoiding. It let me open doors I’d kept locked. It let me breathe in a way I didn’t know I needed. It let me be human without apologising for it.
The Moment I Realised I Wasn’t Alone
When I finally shared some of those words, something unexpected happened. People recognised themselves in them. Strangers. Friends. People I’d never met. They saw their own fears in mine, their own silence, their own weight.
And for the first time, I realised I wasn’t alone.
Writing didn’t save me. But it gave me somewhere to put the things that were drowning me. It gave me a way to understand myself. It gave me a way to speak when speaking felt impossible.
Why I Still Write Today
That’s what led me to poetry. Not talent. Not confidence. Not a dream of being a writer.
Just a need to finally tell the truth, even if it was only on a page.
And once I started, I couldn’t stop. Because once you taste honesty, even in small doses you realise how starved you were for it.
If anything in tonight’s post resonates, or if you’re carrying more than you let on, there are organisations out there who understand and can offer support. I’ve linked a few below, each doing important work around mental health, lived experience, and honest conversation.
You’re never on your own, even when it feels like you are.