DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
Remembering who I am after nearly losing everything
If you had asked me what I was passionate about before this moment, I probably would’ve said, “I have no idea.” Not because I didn’t care, but because I forgot. Not in the usual way—like misplacing keys or losing track of time. I forgot because I let other people’s voices drown out my own.
A few close friends once told me I didn’t take my writing seriously.
That wrecked me.
Because if there’s one thing that’s never left me—never betrayed me, never faded—it’s writing. It’s been the thread stitching my life together from the beginning. So when someone said I didn’t take it seriously, I started questioning everything. If not this… then what?
Then someone else told me I’d turned my back on music. The very thing that once felt like oxygen. It used to pulse through me. Now I was being told I’d abandoned it?
That’s when it all started unraveling.
I spiraled. Hard.
I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. My world had changed so much while I was sick, and I hadn’t prepared—not mentally, not emotionally—for what surviving would feel like. I’d braced for death, not for life after it.
Then one day, out of nowhere, I whispered an old mantra:
“I don’t give a fk.”**
I said it so often that someone actually bought me socks with it on them. No joke.
That one line cracked something open. I started writing again. Drawing. Creating anything I felt like. Not for approval. Not for applause. For me.
And something strange happened—I picked up my pen and wrote better than I ever had. My drawings? It was like I’d never stopped. Like all the time I thought I’d lost hadn’t dulled my skill—it had sharpened my edge.
Even my editor noticed. Called me up and asked, “What happened?”
I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.
I didn’t sit around analyzing it. I didn’t break it down into steps or label it some kind of comeback story. I just kept doing my thing.
I followed my curiosity. Researched whatever the hell I wanted to. Filled my head with what most people would call useless facts—until they needed them. Until the moment a random question popped up and I wasn’t just throwing out some recycled opinion off social media—I had real input. Valuable insight.
Then it hit me:
Everything I’ve learned in my life touches the work I create.
All of it. The random facts. The scars. The late nights obsessing over things no one else cared about. I spent a lifetime gaining knowledge—not for grades, not for clout, but because learning was my first passion.
And now, I remember how to apply it.
That’s passion. Not a performance. Not a brand. Just living and learning because it feeds your soul.
It’s not perfect. I still lose my way. I still forget what lights me up.
But I always come back.
Because I remember now:
I almost died.
And I didn’t.
So what am I passionate about?
I’m passionate about not living like I’m already gone.
I’m passionate about writing with truth, not for claps.
I’m passionate about being better, not louder.
I’m passionate about the quiet work of staying true to what matters—especially when no one’s watching.
I remember who I am, even when I’m the one trying hardest to forget.
Memoirs of Madness 