Today, as I sit at my writing desk, I feel something I’ve longed for my entire life: a genuine sense of connection with my readers. For the first time, I have a growing list of active subscribers who write to me, thank me, ask questions, and share their own stories.
A writer I once admired told me, “When readers start emailing you personally, you’ve struck gold.”
And now… that gold gleams before me.
So let me begin here:
Thank you.
To each and every one of you.
Your enthusiasm, your curiosity, your encouragement — you are the treasure I’ve been searching for.
One question appears again and again in my inbox, whispered beneath many of your messages:
“Since you spent time in a mental health clinic… how did you change the way people looked at you?”
And at last, today, I feel ready to answer.
Rebranding Myself from the Inside Out
Before I could earn subscribers, before I could gain trust, before I could expect anyone to read my work, I had to confront something far more difficult:
I had to change the way I saw myself.
It didn’t matter that I carried scars from the past.
It didn’t matter that my mind worked differently.
It didn’t matter that I had survived things many never will.
What mattered was what I did with it.
My difficult childhood led me to books.
My imagination grew as a survival mechanism.
Those dark corridors eventually became tunnels carrying me toward light.
In short:
My “issues” became my tools.
My pain became purpose.
My past became the ink I write with.
I had the stories.
I had the qualifications.
I had the experiences.
I had the fire.
What I needed… was an audience.
People who could see me not as broken, but as becoming.
And to do that, I had to rebrand myself — not with filters or masks, but with truth.
The Shift That Changed Everything
Here is the secret:
Change the way you see yourself… and the world will catch up.
This is where the journey begins.
It is not mystical or complicated — anyone can do it.
It starts with something simple:
Describe yourself using sensory language.
Look at yourself — in a mirror, a selfie, or your mind’s eye — and describe what you notice, not what you judge.
A few volunteers from a book club once did this exercise with me, and here are their descriptions:
“I begin with the eyes. Not just their color, a muted hazel, but their current state—a slight crinkle at the corners, a gentle weariness. Below the curve of a cheek, kissed by the faintest shadow of stubble. I hear the quiet thrum of blood in my ears, a low, constant hum. My hand, raised to my face, finds the skin cool, almost smooth, save for a tiny, barely perceptible scar above my eyebrow, a souvenir from childhood. The air carries no scent, save for the faint metallic tang of old ink from the book I was just reading. A blandness on my tongue, the lingering taste of unsweetened coffee.”
“The surface reflects back, a familiar topography. My eyes, twin pools, hold the light with varying degrees of intensity, shifting with the day's disposition. A gentle curve of the jaw suggests inherited stoicism, softened by the memory of laughter lines. I inhale; the faint, comforting aroma of old books and morning coffee clings to me. A slight metallic tang hints at the day's lingering anxiety. My fingertips trace the curve of my cheekbone, and a quiet stillness settles.”
“ The canvas of my face, a well-worn roadmap etched by time and laughter. My eyes, twin pools reflecting the dim light, hold secrets and unspoken stories. A faint, earthy scent of old books and brewing coffee clings to my skin, a comforting aroma. If I were to reach out and touch, I'd feel the subtle texture of a faint scar tracing my brow, a silent souvenir from childhood. My voice, a low rumble, would offer a familiar melody if heard ”
Do you see it?
Not one person wrote:
- “I’m ugly.”
- “I’m not good enough.”
- “There’s nothing to see.”
Why?
Because sensory description pulls you into presence, not absence.
When you describe:
- the smell of coffee
- the texture of your cheek
- the sound of your breath
- the scar you’ve carried since childhood
…you anchor yourself in realness.
Not judgment.
Not comparison.
Just truth.
Just existence.
This language transforms flaws into artifacts.
It reframes pain into story.
It turns negativity into texture.
It is a quiet rebellion against self-erasure.
Presence & Perception: The Two Keys
When we describe ourselves with detail, two things happen:
1. We reclaim presence.
We become someone real, not someone imagined through fear.
2. We shift perception.
Once we see ourselves clearly, the world begins to see us differently too.
This exercise changed my life.
It changed the way I walked into rooms.
It changed the way I spoke.
It changed the way I wrote.
And slowly… everything else changed too.
Readers began to subscribe.
Books began to sell.
People began asking for my insights.
And one day — to my astonishment — an acclaimed author commented on my feed.
A dream I once thought untouchable suddenly became real.
Why?
Because for the first time in my life:
I believed I was worth it.
And then the world agreed.
Now It’s Your Turn
I want to invite you into this experience — truly invite you.
Describe yourself using sensory language.
Let your features be textures, scents, sounds, tastes, memories.
Create a portrait made of presence, not judgment.
And if you feel comfortable, I would love to see it.
📨 Send your description — and a selfie, if you wish — to:
If you want, I’ll share it (with your permission) on my social feeds as a celebration of your courage and authenticity.
Go out there and change the world — but start with how you see yourself.
Everything changed for me when I did.
And it can for you too.