Champagne Confessions

I was taught to be graceful before I was ever allowed to be honest. To smile through the ache. To sit quietly while my heart begged to scream. I learned to wear composure like perfume , delicate, practiced, and invisible. But behind every polished entrance, every poised reply, lived a girl overflowing with things no one asked to understand. So I gave my silence a place to speak. I wrote. I wrote like it was oxygen. I wrote like the page could hold what the world could not. My first diary knew the sound of my sadness before I did. And over time, what started as a hidden ritual became a reckoning, the moment I stopped performing and started breathing. I am not the loudest voice in the room. I never needed to be. My power has never lived in volume, it lives in presence. In detail. In stillness. In the way I can pour pain onto a page and leave it elegant. I love beauty. I love restraint. I love the romance of refinement, crisp linens, soft light, a full glass after a long day. But beneath the luxury is a woman who’s fought to find her voice. Who has stitched herself back together word by word. Who no longer asks for permission to feel or to be.

I don’t write to impress. I write because I spent too many years hiding. Too many years pretending that softness made me small. I write because this, this bare, burning, breathless truth, is the most beautiful thing I have to give. And I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

This isn’t performance. This is the voice I buried.

And now, I let her speak.