Since publishing my last set of essays, my inbox has been full of confessions from strangers around the world, telling me their stories that mirror my stories, thanking me for finding words in the catacombs of their silences, in all of our silences.
We are messy and tempestuous because we are made of water and ghosts, because we are people, because we contain within us entire civilizations and abandoned cities and monsters and floods and also miles of desert where there is nothing to drink but our own tears.
And with every confession we offer, we become somebody’s confessor. We were built for it, you see.
Thank you. If I were not your confessor, friends and strangers, I would wonder what on earth use it was to be a writer.
You are beautiful, even in your messiest forms. And you are the only reason anything I do is worth anything, and for this, I am grateful and humbled.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are not enough.