When they tell you that this tragedy, this ache that has taken root in your bones, is not worth their time, do not falter. Instead, grasp your pen—the instrument of defiance—and write. Write with the fire of a thousand suns, scorching the parchment with every syllable.

Show them the way they are wrong. Paint your pain in vivid hues, each stroke a testament to the universality of suffering. For every woman who has ever felt the weight of solitude, let your words be a lifeline. Let them scream across the pages, echoing through generations.

And when they force-feed you doubt, insisting that your anguish is an anomaly, stand firm. Tell them they are wrong. Pain knows no boundaries; it seeps into the marrow of all souls. You are not alone in this.

In the quiet of night, when shadows dance upon your walls, they may whisper, “You’re just another Plath.” But you are more—a constellation of stories waiting to be told. Sylvia’s ghost may linger, but you are not her echo. You are the author of your own narrative.

So, write. Write until the ink runs dry and spills into infinity. You will never be a Plath or a Woolf; you will be a you—completely new, uncharted, and unyielding.

May your pen continue to blaze trails, poetess. ❤️🙏🏾

©️ Beatriz Esmer