91ÑÇÉ«

By Simranjit Kaur

This is the story of a teenager who always had something to say but slowly ran out of people who had the time to listen. That teenager is me. I have always been someone who processes life out loud. As a child, every day after school felt like a debriefing session; I would come home and share every detail of my day with my mom, who listened eagerly and attentively. As I grew older, that ritual faded not because she stopped listening, but because I stopped wanting to share everything. My body was changing, my emotions felt fragile, and I wanted to be understood by people experiencing the same confusion I was. But my friends were teenagers too full of energy, noise, and movement and listening was rarely the priority. Slowly, my thoughts turned inward. They lingered, looped, and multiplied, trapped somewhere between thinking and overthinking, with no real place to land. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the cost of not having a listener was heavier than I expected: it meant carrying every thought alone. I began to long for a space where my thoughts could exist freely, without interruption or judgment. 

I vividly remember one evening while studying for my Grade 10 exams, overwhelmed by everything I was carrying inside. It was late at night, my notes spread across the desk, when I reached for a pen instead of my textbook. Without thinking much, I began to write whatever came to my mind. I felt lighter, as if I had finally shared what I had been holding in. The unevenly filled paper, crowded with words, listened without interrupting, questioning, or offering solutions. It simply held my thoughts. For the first time, I felt listened to even when I was alone. At the time, I didn’t realize that writing was quietly helping me declutter my mind and process emotions I had been afraid to show the world. 

Writing slowly became my nightly ritual. It helped me become more aware of myself by recognizing patterns in my thoughts and learning to name my emotions rather than avoid them. Over time, I noticed my habitual reactions and began to gently break away from some of them. Instead of immediately spiraling after a disappointing day or reacting defensively, I learned to write first to understand what I was actually feeling before responding. There was something quietly powerful about discovering a practice that allowed me to pause. Writing gave me a new narrative, one where I was no longer simply reacting to life but learning how to respond. Through writing, I came to understand early on that my reactions are my responsibility. 

By changing my narrative, I shifted my perspective. I began to see myself as the main character of my own story not perfect, but confident, capable, and growing. This is the story I wanted to share: not one of having everything figured out, but of finding a tool that helped me take control of how I move through the world. Writing may not be for everyone, but for me, it became a way to step back from living on the edge of my thoughts. In writing, I learned what it means to take back the pen and decide where the story goes next.