I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you were when you clicked on my blog or opened a post on Instagram.
Maybe it was late at night. Maybe it was between meetings.
Maybe you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for—but you found your way to my words.
And that means more to me than I can fully express—and that’s coming from someone who cherishes words.
I’m not just writing stories. I’m writing memories. Real ones.
The ones I carried quietly for years.
The ones I’m only now brave enough to share—to give them breath.
I’ve written about faith, silence, rebellion, longing… and all the quiet or loud ways I tried to stay whole in a world that told me to fragment, to disappear.
And you read it.
Even one view, one click, one moment of your attention has reminded me:
stories do reach hearts.
That in my vulnerability, I am not alone.
And neither are you.
So thank you.
Thank you for reading.
For lingering.
For listening.
Thank you for bearing witness.
Whether you’ve read one piece or many, whether you meant to stumble across my work or not—
you were here.
And that matters.
With gratitude and quiet joy,
Meagan
Writer, Seeker, Story-Sharer
“I wrote my way out of the dark. Not to escape it, but to turn on the lights and name every shadow.”