The Ache of Wanting to Be Everything

For the days when I want to be everything, and fear I’ll end up as nothing.

Fragments of me – held together by longing, stitched together by art.

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There’s a quiet kind of grief in being able to do everything – because no matter what you choose, a hundred versions of you go unlived.

I used to think being good at many things was a blessing. Now I wonder if it’s just a slower way to drown – spreading myself across dreams, hoping one becomes real.

I want to do everything. I want to learn every skill, chase every dream, explore every version of myself. I feel capable of it. Even meant for it.

But sometimes I fear I’ll end up as nothing – not because I couldn’t, but because I tried too much, too wide, too soon.

Because being able to do everything comes with the quiet grief of never knowing which part of yourself to choose.

So here’s a glimpse into all the versions of me that ask to be seen:

These are the fragments. The passions.

I love them all. And I don’t know how to let any of them go.

Maybe I never have to.

Or maybe this is the kind of chaos I’ll always carry –

the ache of wanting a full life,

and fearing I’ll be too scattered to live even one.

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Where My Pain Learns to Speak Softly

Writing has always been the closest to my heart.

It gives me a place to release everything I hold too tightly.

I don’t write to heal. I write to hold. To remember.

To make pain into something soft enough to carry.

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Before I wrote, I read.

Books raised me before I knew how to raise my own voice.

Maybe that’s why writing feels like coming home – it began with listening.

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Here’s one of the poems that came from that space:

I carve sorrow into syllables,

let it bleed between the lines –

not for pity, not for praise,

but because the ache asks to be seen.

I gather pieces of me and create art.

Some call it coping. I call it creating.

Because even if nothing else makes sense,

my pain has always known how to speak.

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When My Hands Don’t Want to Talk

When words fall short, I turn to sketches. They are still poems – just in pencil. It’s a way of breathing when I’m too quiet to speak.

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A Gentle Kind of Chaos

I started journaling in 2024.

Before that, my journals lived in digital notes and handmade crafts – origami, tiny cut-outs, messy glue marks.

Now, I journal with handwriting, washi tape, and scattered thoughts that somehow feel like home. I was always someone who kept diaries – a personal space to unpack days. Even when there were no pictures, the feelings stayed.

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Where Chaos Finds Calm

Editing is something I rarely talk about, but it’s one of the things I’m quietly proud of. It’s where I remind myself: chaos can be shaped. Art can begin anywhere. And sometimes, creating something beautiful on screen feels like rebuilding a part of myself.

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The Quiet of Sugar and Flour

When nothing else feels like home,

I find myself in the kitchen.

Flour under my nails. The oven warming something soft.

Even silence tastes better when it’s sweet.

I used to cook a lot in 2020. That’s when I started baking, too. Life got busy, but in 2025, I returned to it again. Sometimes healing tastes like something warm and sweet.

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Hearts in a Glass

I make hearts and stars wherever I can – even in milk. Especially in milk.

It’s such a small thing, but maybe that’s the point: joy lives in the tiny, lovely details we take time to create.

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Holding onto what fades

I love capturing stillness. Freezing time before it disappears. Keeping a soft moment with me long after it’s gone.

Nostalgia is my favorite ache – quiet, warm, and always looking back with gentleness.

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This is what makes me me.

Maybe I am all of them at once.

Maybe I never had to choose.

Maybe the point was never to settle –

but to live as many lives as I can carry.

Sometimes I look at everything I’ve done – all the versions of me – and wonder if it’s all just foolish fondness.

But then again, maybe that’s the point.

Maybe being foolishly fond of all the lives I’ve wanted…

is how I stay alive in this one.

Maybe this ache, this becoming, this hunger to be more than I am — maybe it’s just proof I romanticize everything.

I think I’ll always be a little in love with all the versions of myself I never quite became.

I hope that’s enough. With love.