There comes a point — or rather, a strange, shapeless moment — when the version of yourself you've been carefully maintaining starts to quietly fall apart, not with drama or spectacle, but with the quiet ache of something that no longer fits.

That’s where I am now.

Somewhere between what was supposed to be and what might still become. Somewhere between the person I was told I should be and the one I’m trying to rediscover — or maybe create from scratch.

I’ve spent most of my life following the recipe. You know the one: be good, be smart, be useful, do the work, build the future. I went to school, I got the degrees, I found the job, I gave more than I had — constantly — because I believed in the reward that was supposed to come after enough sacrifice. That elusive thing called “fulfillment” that they say waits at the end of the checklist.

And for a while, it seemed to be working. On paper, at least.

I got married to a boy who should’ve become a man, but didn’t. I built a life around stability, around responsibility, around trying to make things work even when they clearly weren’t. I poured myself into everything — into the job, into the marriage, into becoming “better,” into trying harder, into fixing things that maybe weren’t mine to fix.

And then came the silence.

Burnout is not just exhaustion — it’s a slow disintegration of joy. It’s waking up every day feeling like a stranger in your own body, in your own house, in your own name. And when that happened, I found myself standing in the ruins of everything I thought was right: divorced, drained, in love with someone who could never be mine, asking questions I didn’t dare ask before.

Like: who am I without all the roles I’ve played so well?

And how the hell do I become the hero of my own story, when I feel more like the background character in everyone else’s?

I don’t have the answers yet. And maybe that’s what this space is for — a place to ask the questions out loud, to collect the fragments, to sit with the uncomfortable parts and maybe even laugh at them on some days.

"All the Little Pieces" is not a polished blog or a personal brand. It’s a drawer full of mismatched thoughts. Some are raw and painful. Others are absurd. Some taste like nostalgia. Others sound like therapy. It’s a place for existential questions and dessert recipes. For heartbreak and sarcasm. For sleepless nights and spontaneous insights.

You'll find brainstorms & heartbeats, where I pour out whatever comes — ideas, confessions, stories, photos, lists, nonsense, wisdom — often all in the same breath.

This isn’t a fresh start. It’s a continuation — but one where I finally get to be honest.

Not perfect. Not always coherent.

But honest.

And if you’ve ever looked at your life and wondered, “is this really it?”, or felt like you were made for something more, or just wanted to scream into the void and maybe hear someone whisper “same,” — then welcome.

There’s room here for all of your pieces, too.