I thought finishing my book would feel like relief. Instead, it sent me into doubt, fear, and the urge to throw the whole thing away. This is the part of writing no one talks about.

After fifteen years of living abroad, everything I’ve ever had has ended up in one wardrobe. Letters, jeans, stones, books—proof of lives I once lived. The question is: what do you keep, and what do you let go?

Nine years ago, I landed at Sydney Kingsford Smith airport with a rucksack on my back. Two years tops, I told myself. Like I always did when moving somewhere new. But I stayed. It’s been nine years, and I’ve hardly noticed.

Frustration has been killing me. I can’t write, I can’t think, and the more I try, the worse it gets. And then I realise: this is exactly what writing is supposed to teach me.

The most common feedback I often hear about my writing, whether from friends or writing groups, is that I'm so honest. And it still surprises me when people notice it, not because I don't believe my writing is honest, but because how else do you write personal stories?