I don’t know if I’m doing this right.

That’s the first thing I want to say.
Not very professional, I know—but I’m not here to be polished. I’m here to be honest.

I started this because my journal was getting too loud. Because my art scraps were starting to feel like stories. Because I want to know that I am not alone. Because I want a place to belong. Because I’ve spent too much of my life trying to be "nice" and "grateful" and "fine"—when what I really am is wild and unfinished and searching.

This is a space for all of that.
For the healing. For the wreckage. For the women (or humans) like me who grew up thinking survival meant being small and quiet and good.
And who are now learning: we were never meant to be any of those things.

She’s my pen name.
My avatar. My inner truth-teller. My soul-scribe.
She is what happens when you’ve swallowed your voice for decades and suddenly decide to scream into the waves.

She’s half-woman, half-myth, holding a fishhook and a journal full of poems and pain and power. She’s me—but wilder around the edges.

She is who I have been all along. 

• Posts about creativity, grief, healing, rage, motherhood, silence, recovery, and hope

• Pages from my journal
   
• Raw, big feelings
   
•  Fragments from the life I’m still trying to make sense of

• Creative prompts for self-discovery

• Bits and bobs, tales and tribulations
   

This isn’t a place for answers. Its a place for questions, for searching. A meeting place for the souls.
A place for showing up. A place for creative curiosity. A place for authenticity. For ripping things apart and gluing them back together. And maybe laughing a little at the mess. A place to share and a place for learning to show ourselves some grace.

You’re not alone.

Neither am I.

With salt, ink, and wild love,
 

-The Feral Fishwife

Photo by @enchantedrubbish