I didn’t plan to write a book.
I planned to get through the day. Then the next one. Then the one after that.
There was a period in my life where functioning was the goal. Not living — just functioning. I got up. I went through the motions. I smiled when it was expected. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I lost track of who I actually was.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just quietly, gradually — the way you don’t notice a room getting darker until you suddenly can’t see at all.
PULLQUOTE: “My mother looked at me one day and asked: What’s wrong with you? And something cracked open.”
I said out loud, maybe for the first time: This can’t go on. I was unhappy. Dissatisfied. Nothing fit together — not the relationship, not my life, not myself.
So I started writing. Not for anyone else. Just for me. To make sense of what had happened. To understand who I had been, why I had gone so quiet, what I actually wanted from my life.
The writing became a book.
“I Wasn’t Broken — I Just Wasn’t Myself” is that journey. Unfiltered. Honest. Without the neat resolution or the perfect ending. Because real healing doesn’t have one.
It is for every woman who functions but has forgotten who she is. You don’t have to be loud. You don’t have to be strong. You just have to be honest — with yourself.
Find the book here → https://amzn.to/4wZyiad
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