Pages and Punchlines

I never set out to be a writer.

I didn’t sit there dreaming of books or stages or strangers listening to my truth.

I was just trying to survive.

Trying to escape the chaos in my head,

Put pain into something that made a bit more sense.

At first, it was random thoughts,

Written between random symptoms,

Between different moods,

Between moments I nearly gave up.

It wasn’t polished.

Wasn’t supposed to be poetic.

It just needed to be real.

And somehow… that mattered.

People listened and I felt seen.

And suddenly I realised the thing that broke me could be the thing to help fix me.

So I kept writing.

Through the pain, fatigue and through the fear.

Through those “what’s the point?” mornings.

Book one then two then three.

Every one of them another piece of me,

Laid bare with a smile and a “yeah, that’ll do.”

I’m not here to impress.

I’m here to express.

To talk about MS,

Mental health,

And all the things people dodge at parties.

I don’t wear a suit.

I wear the tracksuit.

I don’t fake perfection,

I show up real so others know they can do too.

This isn’t fame.

It’s purpose.

It’s scribbled pages turned to proof,

Proof that even the broken bits can speak truth.

I never set out to be a writer

But maybe,

Just maybe,

Writing was always set out to find me.

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