When I put the final period on the first manuscript, I felt triumphant.
The euphoria evaporated quickly, but something stayed behind.
I felt... lighter, somehow. As if something that had long taken up space inside me had come out and left room behind it. Not emptiness — space. Room for something new.
In the book I wrote about fear, about uncertainty, about moments when I didn't know what to do and did the wrong thing anyway. About the stretch in a marriage when you look at your husband and wonder: are we still the same people? About the fact that children grow up — and that's happiness and loss at the same time.
I wrote all of it. For strangers. For the whole world, in a manner of speaking.
And nothing happened. No one condemned me. No one said, 'Nadi, that's too personal.' Readers wrote the opposite: 'I felt exactly the same way, but I thought I was the only one.' It was stunning to discover that honesty about your own weaknesses doesn't push people away — it draws them closer.
Something clicked after that experience. I realized I'd spent years keeping my distance in places where it wasn't needed. I was afraid of being seen as weak, inconsistent, too emotional — so I hid exactly that.
I hide less now. That doesn't mean I tell everyone everything. It means there are fewer layers now between who I actually am and who I show.
One more thing changed: I stopped being afraid of other people's opinions the way I used to be. Not that I don't care now — I do. But it stopped being a stop sign. It used to be that the thought of someone reading and not understanding, or reading and judging, could stop me mid-page. Not anymore. I write knowing someone won't get it. And I write anyway.
I didn't expect this effect. I thought I'd write a book — and I'd have a book. It turned out: you write a book, and you get a different version of yourself.