The face of the moon was in shadow
There's a saying I used to hear all the time. People would say they were traveling to find themselves. And I got it. I really did. Because for a long time, I thought I was meant to find myself too. As if who I was had gone missing somewhere—in a place, a woman, a song, a silence.
And I chased that feeling like a thread through cities, relationships, countries, and causes. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse. In the mirror.
In music. In the eyes of someone who saw me before I learned to hide. But it never lasted. Because the truth is, I wasn't lost. I was layered.
Layered beneath the names I'd been given, the masks I wore to survive the roles I played without even realizing I'd auditioned. And the more I searched for myself, the more I missed what was already here. I remember the moment it shifted. It wasn't dramatic. There were no fireworks.
I was sitting quietly, just watching the breeze move the trees outside. That was all. But something inside me loosened. And a simple thought floated through: What if there's nothing to find? What if who I am has always been here, beneath all the trying? It didn't change everything overnight. But it changed something.
I stopped chasing. I stopped measuring myself by old pain or future dreams. And for the first time, I began to feel present in my own skin. That's when the real writing began. Not to become someone. But to uncover what I no longer needed to protect. To speak from that stillness that doesn't care about how it's received, only that it's real. So if you're tired of looking for yourself, I get it. You don't need to go anywhere. Just be still long enough to hear what's already speaking underneath the noise. It's not hiding. It's waiting. This is the space I write from now on. If it speaks to you, stick around. There's more to come.