I feel like I was born to write

It is my passion, my means of expression

And then I pursued it, studied it, made it my profession

There is a fire in my heart, and my creativity fuels it

So I write, I write, I write

Post-graduation, I have been looking for writing jobs in the Netherlands

But it’s never that easy

We love your portfolio

Your writing submission was interesting and carried insights and nuances we enjoyed reading

Your writing feels conversational, easy to follow

But unfortunately, we cannot sponsor a work visa for this position

Ten months of job search 

And over a year of hopeful application, cold emails, and networking coffees

Has led to no writing

Let alone applications, cover letters, LinkedIn posts

I feel like I cannot write something even for my blog 

My words seem to have abandoned me in this downward loop

Of self-doubt, loneliness, fear, anger and disbelief

I feel like I have interesting stories to tell 

And I keep meeting people who say they would want to hear more 

But there are budget cuts at the agency

The new Kennismigrant laws make it too expensive to hire Internationals for junior roles

You should know basic Dutch to fully participate in the office culture 

My fire is being hosed down

I feel like if I cannot get myself to write 

I must read

Consume more stories, learn new words 

Feel others’ feelings, share others’ experiences

So my friends start gifting me novels

I start following brown diaspora Substack accounts,

Follow news online

So I read, I read, I read 

Hunger strike, jobless youth, tax frauds

Heatwaves, deepfakes of girls

Vinted is trafficking kids?

Hate crimes, racism, fascism 

Bangles are trending and steel plates and bandhani scarves

Everyone wants a piece of India, but no one wants the Indians

I feel like I somehow always end up on the hateful side of the internet these days

Maybe the information I seek is a reflection of the space my mind is captive in

If reading is so draining, I can talk 

Stories live around me, not only in books and the internet

My colleagues, my friends, my dad and my server

All have some wisdom to impart 

I feel like I just need to be in the right rooms

Surround myself with interesting people and their insights

That is how I keep my fire still burning, how I find my way back to writing 

So I listen, I listen, I listen

My grandmother grew up in Surinam with stories of Pushkar; my dream is to go there for Holi. Have you been?

I am in love! This girl is so kind, smart, attentive, and fun. I want to spend every waking moment in her presence. The days aren’t long enough! Do you get what I mean?

I made an app which gives you prompts for objects, colours, and scenery to find on your daily walk, which you can share with your friends on the app with the calorie and steps count of your walk. I am gamifying my wellbeing. Would you test the app for me?

Why do you have sabr tattooed? In Bosnia, it is sabur. Means the same: patience. Funny how language travels beyond borders and time and cultures.

Did you know elephants have evolved to be born tuskless or with very small tusks because of ivory poaching over centuries? Nature is so savvy, and we are so ruthless.

All this trivia, jokes, beauty and grief

There are lived victories, trickled-down traumas, taught hate and fostered rage

And most importantly, there is endless love

Despite which, I find myself zoning out of conversations

My energy drained from social interactions

Mind stuck in the loop of applications and rejections

The ticking clock on the visa validity

And rising interest on the student loan

I feel I need to lie down.

My fire is starting to seem like a burnout

How will I write for a living?

My middle school librarian texts me

It is okay. Divert your mind. Maybe you need to focus your energy on upskilling. Give your creativity some fodder to chew on. 

My sister keeps reminding me

You are more than a visa, more than a job, more than a blog entry. You are creative even when you don’t write. You are an artist even if you don’t make art tonight. Trust your art, trust your passion. 

My sweet sweet aunt keeps calling to say

Come home. Come home, you are too young and life too long. We will figure it out. Your family has enough to take care of the loan and your bills and your passions. Come home, you don’t need a visa to be loved.

My self-appointed Dutch mom tells me 

If you keep running from these negative thoughts and feelings, they will keep getting louder. Sit with them. Feel them. Release them. Once you are rid of the what ifs and buts and god forbids, you will write again.

So I feel. I feel. I feel.

I am twenty-three years old, and I have had the honour of feeling all these feelings. The honour of listening to all these stories, the honour of experiencing all these people and places and vibes and rejections and opportunities and the honour of living nine different lives and of breathing all this love.

I feel. I feel. I feel. 

And as I feel, I write.