I Didn’t Think I Was a Writer… Until I Wrote Something That Made Me Cry — WordsByEkta🌿

I Didn't Think I Was a Writer… Until I Wrote Something That Made Me Cry

Writing born from pain. Healing shared in silence. Unseen by many — but always mine.

Embracing the calm of a rainy evening with words. 🌿

I don't remember trying to become a writer.

I didn't sit down with coffee and a dream, saying, "I want to write something that changes lives." I just sat with pain — too much of it — and one day, it spilled.

I still remember those lines. They weren't poems, not really. Just scattered thoughts. Sad, confused, unfinished. I hadn't read any Rumi or Gibran. I just wrote because it was the only thing I could do when I couldn't cry.

Here's a piece of it — raw, imperfect, real:

"Rona to h par aansu aata nhi… Jeena h mr mr ke nhi, Zindagi h has has ke jeeni…"

I didn't even think it was good. But when I showed it to my aunt, she didn't say "Nice lines." She said,

"There's a writer in you."

And for the first time, I paused. Maybe there was.

I posted it once, on a quiet little blog no one read. It was my secret corner — not for the world, but for the girl who had no one to talk to.

A friend read it and shared it on Facebook. She added my name. Years later, I scrolled through her profile — she's not here anymore — but the post still is.

My name. My words. Frozen in her memory.

As if she believed in me more than I did.

But even after that… I kept sharing it. Every new friend, every colleague, eventually heard that poem.

It was the one thing I was proud of. The one thing I wanted validation for.

And the one thing that always came from the truth.

That same poem found its way into a small magazine once.

It wasn't planned.

I had shown it to a colleague — one of the few people I trusted in a new office. He read it quietly, looked up, and said,

"This hit somewhere."

Turns out, his girlfriend was curating a collection of unpublished writers — stories, poems, fragments from people who wrote from the heart but never called themselves writers.

He asked if he could show her mine. I hesitated. Then I said yes.

She liked it. She asked to include it. And just like that, something I wrote in the dark — for no one — ended up in print.

I didn't even buy a copy. Not because I wasn't proud, but because a part of me still couldn't believe it. Like I'd tricked them into thinking I was someone I wasn't.

So no — I didn't think I was a writer.

But maybe that line…

"Jo likha h mujhe pta bhi nhi, bs likh diya jo mann me aaya…"
was the most honest thing I've ever said.

Today, I'm writing again.

I'm writing a novel.

Not because I have time. Not because I think it'll sell.

But because something inside me feels whole when I write.

Maybe no one will read it. Maybe I'll be misunderstood, again.

But I'm not doing it for likes or shares or applause this time.

I'm doing it for her. That younger version of me who sat in a room, hurting in silence, and wrote something that made her feel seen — even if no one else did.

And maybe, just maybe…

If my words reach even one person feeling like her, then I'll know:

I didn't become a writer.
I was one all along.

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✍️ Written by WordsByEkta
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud

💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
wordsbyekta.gumroad.com

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