Being here in France reminds me of when I was nineteen, newly arrived in Montréal, open to every discovery. I felt on top of the world then. In many ways, I still do. And yet now, that feeling is tangled with self-doubt and fear.

I'm twenty-six years old now, and while I often feel no different than I did at nineteen, my anxious thoughts remind me that I'm not a kid anymore. They tell me I'm behind. That I've missed something. Nineteen is a special age, free from judgment and free from the quiet pressure of expectations.

I used to think of writing the way a painter thinks of a canvas. Language was my medium. Emotion was my subject. Writing felt like creating something real and something honest. But as I got older, I became afraid of being vulnerable and of being seen. When I was younger, the world didn't expect me to be perfect. It felt easier to try. Easier to fail. Easier to begin.

The last few years have been marked by the saddest kind of writer's block: fear of my own voice.

Shortly before my twentieth birthday, I moved to Montréal and enrolled in a creative writing certificate program. I was excited to be pursuing my dreams. Writing still felt limitless then. I wrote stories about travel, inspired by Lonely Planet magazines, imagining a life lived across borders and pages. I wrote about love and heartbreak, and about my relationships: romance, friends and family.

Words were colours. Letters were shades. A well-written phrase could carry the same emotional weight as a framed painting in a quiet gallery.

Writing wasn't just something you read — it was something you felt.

I missed that feeling.

Over the past few years, I've continued to journal, but publishing is different. Publishing asks for vulnerability. It asks us to stand behind our words and let them be seen. We chase perfection, fear rejection, and try to protect ourselves from criticism — but the hardest part is believing in ourselves first.

I write what's real. I write what I feel in my heart. And the truth is, while we all experience these same emotions, we often pretend otherwise. Why? I think it's a gift to feel deeply, to see the world through different coloured lenses.

My stories are personal — rooted in my relationships, in all their complicated and messy entanglements. I write about myself, about the struggles I believe we all carry, even when we don't say them out loud. I write about my dreams, my thirst for adventure, and my stubborn love for constant challenge.

I wish to live a life worthy of a story.

So here I am, sitting in a chalet overlooking the French Alps. It has long been a dream of mine to move to France and work a ski season in the mountains. Chasing this adventure, and seeing it come to life, has reminded me of what truly matters. And with that, I begin again — entering a new year with honest words, and stories of love, travel, and everything in between.