#0.3 / Why This Book Exists
I have no idea, but here's what I'm feeling
It started as a pressure in the chest.
Not an idea. A sensation.
Like a knot I couldn’t untie.
Like a language I didn’t speak, but remembered.
I didn’t write it for you.
I wrote it because it needed to leave my body.
To untrap whatever was asking to breathe.
To make room for whatever comes next.
And I wrote it for all the versions of me
who’ve been waiting.
The boy who felt invisible in his own skin.
The teenager who ran away from silence.
The man who fears he might never become
what he knows he could be.
And the one I’ll never be.
The one who moves through life with grace instead of grind.
The one with steady hands and eyes that don’t flinch.
That version is with me now.
Helping me write what I alone couldn’t find.
This book is not mine.
It’s ours.
A shared field.
A breathing place between timelines,
between identities,
between the person you were
and the one still forming.
It’s not a guide.
There’s no map.
Only echoes. Threads.
And space to feel them.
I didn’t write this to perform.
I wrote it to refuse.
To refuse the need to be clear,
when the truth is complicated.
To refuse the pressure to sound wise,
when I feel more lost than found.
To refuse the demand for certainty,
when what I long for is honesty.
This book is not a framework.
It’s a fracture.
A pause.
A long exhale in a culture that never breathes.
It’s for those tired of optimizing themselves.
Of narrating every move.
Of shrinking into personas
that no longer feel like home.
It’s for those who carry pain like oxygen.
Who ache for connection but can’t find the door.
Who want to believe that maybe
being soft doesn’t mean being weak.
It’s for my daughters.
Not to leave them answers,
but to show them what it looks like
to live inside the question.
To keep walking.
Even when the path disappears.
And it’s for those I’ll never meet.
The ones suffering in silence.
The ones building new ways forward
without applause.
The ones who don’t want a spotlight—
just a moment of stillness.
This is not a book.
It’s a letting go.
Of performance.
Of instruction.
Of needing to be understood.
It’s what remains
when all the noise has left the room.
Not a monument.
But a mirror.
Not a brand.
But a breath.
Not a future to chase.
But a present to finally inhabit.
And if it helps, let it.
If it doesn’t, leave it.
But whatever it does,
may it remind you:
you are not alone in the in-between.
Join the Creation
This book isn’t written for you. It’s written with you.
If something in this section resonated, challenged you, or made you pause—I’d love to hear it.
Your feedback, your insights, your questions help shape what comes next.
And if you’re an editor, a publisher, or a creative soul who feels called to illustrate these words—reach out.
This is a co-creation process. Not a metaphor. A real one.