I first started writing my first book a few months after losing my best friend, who was like my soul sister. On March 10th, 2023, I found out that Makayla Alexander had lost her battle with depression. I was distraught, consumed by grief, and couldn’t stop replaying our last text messages in my mind. I didn’t understand what had happened. I blamed myself for not seeing that she was hurting. I wish I could have saved her.
That weekend, we had plans to hang out. But when I got the news, my world shattered. I felt like a piece of me had been ripped away, leaving a hollow ache that nothing could fill.
Writing became my escape. At first, the story I wrote lacked definition and drama—it was raw, unfiltered grief pouring onto the page. But I needed it. I needed the happy ending, even if only on paper. A year later, I rewrote the story with more structure, more depth, but that initial draft reminded me why writing is so therapeutic.
It’s not just about telling a story. Writing allows us to process what we cannot speak aloud, to sit with our pain, and to explore it safely. It gives form to chaos and meaning to heartbreak.
Poetry has always been a part of that journey, too. I’ve written for as long as I can remember, and I’ve published two books of poetry. Poems are my whispered conversations with myself, with grief, and with the people I’ve lost. They are both my catharsis and my connection to the world around me.
Through writing, I found a lifeline. It gave me a place to honor Makayla’s memory, to face the dark corners of my heart, and to turn despair into creation. Writing didn’t erase the pain, but it transformed it into something I could hold, something I could grow from, and something that might, one day, help someone else feel less alone.
Losing Makayla changed me forever, but writing saved me in ways I could never have imagined. It became my anchor, my therapy, and my way of keeping a piece of her alive.
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Your words brought tears to my eyes. I lost my cousin to suicide two years ago, and I’ve struggled to put my grief into words. Reading your reflection reminded me that writing doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be honest. Thank you for sharing your heart and honoring Makayla in this way. It makes me feel a little less alone.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Sarah. Grief like this is so hard to carry, but you’re not alone. Thank you for sharing your heart with me—it truly means a lot.
As someone who also comes from a culture where we don’t talk much about mental health, this really touched me. I lost a friend during university, and writing poetry was also my way to survive the silence. Thank you for showing that grief can be transformed into something meaningful.
I’ve never been much of a writer, but I turn to painting when I’m overwhelmed. Reading your words reminded me that art in any form can help us process what feels impossible to say out loud. Your story is heartbreaking but also so inspiring.
This resonated with me deeply. My younger brother struggled with depression, and while he is still with us, there were moments we almost lost him. I journaled every night during those times, and it became my therapy. Your strength in sharing Makayla’s memory is powerful.
Maria, thank you for sharing. Journaling is such a powerful way to honor loved ones and hold them close. Your story is a beautiful reminder of that.
I really admire your vulnerability in writing this. I lost my father suddenly, and for a long time I didn’t know how to cope. I started keeping a notebook of memories and small poems—it helped me hold onto him. Your post is a reminder that grief can be both personal and universal.