A friend asked me recently, what’s the purpose of my writing?
If I’m going to challenge the narrative, if I’m going to say the things most people won’t say, what’s the endgame?
My first response was simple: To insult. To trigger. Always.
Not out of malice, out of necessity.
Because in a world full of lies and euphemisms, sometimes the only way to wake people up is to slap them across the face with truth.
Still, it goes deeper than that.
I write to say the things other people can’t say. I speak what’s been buried in their throats. Because if they hear their pain in my words, maybe they’ll recognize their own voice again.
There’s healing in that— In knowing you’re not crazy. You’re not alone. You didn’t imagine it. The betrayal was real. The pain was real. The silence was a wound. That you can be weak and strong in the same moment.
And the worst crime is to gaslight yourself out of your own truth.
So yes, I write to trigger. I write to insult. I write to name what’s been unnamed.
And every word I choose is intentional. This story is mine. And it’s probably yours too.