until now.
Today the weather is gray, and I feel it settling into me. This heaviness has been lingering for days—so dense it almost buzzes, like a quiet overstimulation. I feel uncertain, even a little scared. Maybe I’ve never truly faced fear until now: fear of the unknown, fear of letting go, fear of stepping into a different version of myself.
But that’s the version I’m reaching for—the one who is softer, steadier, secure and loved. I’ve always been grateful for the support I’ve received, but I often wonder how long it lasts. Will it fade? Should it? Sometimes the love that carries us can also weigh us down. Support is beautiful, but it can become a quiet burden for the giver.
As I turn toward this new chapter, I want to walk into it alone for a while. I need time to process the past three years—the ones that stretched and blurred until a single year felt like a decade. I’m tired of defending, of worrying, of the constant fight. I want a kind of stillness that feels untouchable.
It’s like waiting for a new song to drop. I keep replaying old favorites because I know them; they’ve carried me through heartbreak and hope. But eventually, the new songs will come. Some I’ll love. Some I’ll skip. Some might change me entirely.
Maybe the next song of my life won’t even have words—just music. Something gentle yet lifting, a melody that lets my heart find its own rhythm. Just imagining it, I can almost hear the harmony waiting for me.
With so much love,
Amy Douangmany
Dear Diary, 