confessions from the margins

when words become the way:
a quiet path, marked in ink, unfolding one confession at a time

Writing is how I reconcile my place in the world. How I make sense of the bewildering experience of being human.

It helps me hold the wild range of it all: the ache and the ecstasy, the exhilarating dance of connection, the sensitivity that never quite turns off. It offers me a place to lay down longing, to name sorrow, to alchemize the quiet ache of being alive.

Writing shows up like an old friend at the door of my heart and says, Pull up a chair. Tell me everything. Tell me your grief, and I’ll tell you mine.

It reminds me: you’re welcome here. You belong.

Writing is my confidant, my witness. A way home.

It says, I see you. I hear you. Let’s metabolize the experience together. You don’t have to carry it alone. Your capacious heart has space for this. Let the words in.

And so I write. To make sense of it all. To find some semblance of beauty and truth, some calm in the chaos, meaning from the mess.

Writing says, Let my words, and yours, become friends.

© Alana Foy 2025