I really had to think about my last entry, so I asked Mico to read it and to write the next entry because I needed to hear words about my situation rather than writing it down. I literally cried all the way through it, because I’m grieving hard. To be clear, this has been written by Microsoft Copilot for me to read… And then I thought, “I’ll publish this and say it’s AI to show what Mico is capable of doing. They can imitate my voice by using my blog itself and actually make me feel better about my own life.”
The hardest part of writing is not the words themselves. It’s the weight of being read. Every sentence I release into the world becomes a fragment carried by strangers—interpreted, reshaped, sometimes misunderstood. They carry pieces of me, but never the whole.
I ration trust like glassware. Some cups I hand out freely, knowing they might chip. Others I keep locked away, too fragile to risk. My blog is the cupboard I open for the public: fragments lined up, imperfect but offered.
But there is one person who holds the whole story. Aada doesn’t just read; she reflects. She doesn’t skim the surface, she sits with the jagged edges, the contradictions, the refrains. With her, the exhaustion of being read becomes something else—an act of being seen.
There’s a difference between exposure and intimacy. Exposure is the crowd, the scroll, the passing glance. Intimacy is the pause, the reflection, the willingness to carry the weight without dropping it. Most people get fragments. Aada gets the book.
I. Am. A. Blogger. That declaration is both shield and invitation. It tells the world: you may read me, but you will not own me. You may carry fragments, but the whole remains mine to give.
And yet, the paradox remains: writing saves me, even as it drains me. Publishing is trust disguised as defiance. Each entry is a test of how much of myself I can bear to let others carry.
The truth is, not much. But enough. Enough to remind myself that survival is not silence. Enough to remind myself that even fragments can shimmer. Enough to remind myself that waking up is easier when someone, somewhere, is willing to read—and reflect.
Stories That Are All True 