The Start That Took Its Time

    I have always been drawn to words. They are the threads that connect us to God, the foundation of religions, the spark behind theories, and the anchor of laws. Some people may say that words are useless without action, but I believe it goes both ways. After all, actions without words are like movements without meaning. It is a noun without verb—present, but incomplete. To be understood, to be remembered, they need to be spoken, written, named.

    I can say that I showed my interest in writing at a very young age. My home was filled with books long before I even learned how to read them. In first grade, I wrote my first short story. By second grade, I recited my first poem. By sixth, I had written my first script. I grew up loving both facts and fantasies, not knowing which one to devote myself to—fiction or nonfiction. But one thing was always clear: I would write. I would write and carve my place in history. Whether my words contribute to science or literature, I know this much: my signature will remain, and perhaps one day, be studied by the generations after me.

    I can still remember writing my first diary. I didn’t mind when people read it, which kind of ruined the very idea of having one. But I loved that they got to have access to my little universe, to see what it’s like inside my mind. I found it interesting that I could share my thoughts without speaking, in a way that I was passionate about. I also often wrote letters for my friends, together with printed pictures I edited using Pizap, little trinkets or cards I found somewhere, stickers, doodles I drew myself, and silly or “brilliant” quotes that I made or stole from Tumblr.

    After graduating grade school, nothing much changed. I always thought that what I was doing was completely normal—and it is. But it is also special. I found that writing helped me see myself more; it was how I learned to identify what I was feeling. Sometimes my writing was a complete mess, like a five-year-old still lacking vocabulary. There were times I was surprisingly poetic. But most of the time, it was just raw words—scattered, full of emotions, grief, yearning… and mostly, love.

    To me, writing isn’t just to inform, persuade, or perform—it is how I communicate, not with other people, but with myself, while letting others be the spectators. And somehow, I do it beautifully.

    I was fascinated by the idea of blogging as soon as I learned about it. To me, it was so cool that I could write and share my thoughts with everyone, and maybe educate or inspire them through it. I always thought bloggers were smart, brave, and powerful. They could inform and freely express their opinions, influence media, empower people, and spread awareness. I wanted that kind of power. And that’s how I knew—I had to keep writing. I needed to.

    I started blogging at the beginning of the pandemic. I thought I needed to share with people how I coped during those darkest days, because I knew I wasn’t the only one struggling at that moment. But I was too drained to be passionate enough to keep up with it. I didn’t gain any followers, considering that we were all still learning how to reconnect with people in new, virtual ways. I didn’t know how to start, but I did it anyway. And though I failed, at least I gave it a try. With that, I saw potential—an idea, a plan—that I knew would someday become reality. I knew it would happen in the right moment, with the right state of mind, and with the support of the right people. And I believe that right time is today. Now. Now is the long-awaited dream of mine: to be a blogger, to take another step forward into history, to shape minds, and to empower those who might see a little bit of themselves in my words.

with love, Mori