Writer in the dark

There is a strange insanity that comes with being a woman in her 20s. A haunting fear that follows like a thought lingering in the back of our minds, refusing to leave. The constant ache of amounting to nothing, even after devoting every breath we take in pursuit. That every unacknowledged sacrifice, every swallowed insult, every underpaid job, and every pretend-smile might dissolve into nothingness, forever engulfed by the void of disregard. Each day feels like a theatrical performance, and the curtain never truly falls. There's a certain loneliness in that gnawing fear—the kind that rests behind the eyes of every woman, even those who have done everything right, yet still find themselves running on fumes.

There is a fine line between passion and hysteria, and I have spent my whole life being told not to cross it. They say I am the firstborn daughter of contradictions—someone who embodies duality, tenderness, and rage. The world made women like me believe there is something inside us that must be restrained: a fierce, unspeakable wildness that must be tamed if we don't want to risk being labelled as something not meant to survive in a world designed for silence. We constantly walk the tightrope between rage and grace, between self and sacrifice. This is the type of insanity we inherit: to chase dreams that slip through the cracks of reality.

There are days when the burden of that effort feels unbearable, when I wonder if all this wandering is just leading me back to the same place I started—unheard, unseen, and lost. Every stumble confirms the quiet voice that maybe they were right all along—that no amount of endurance will ever be enough. We are told the sky is the limit, as long as we fold our wings before flight. And still, I write. I write of compliments that sting like salt in an open wound, of pavements that turn into ghosts with watching eyes and reaching hands, of glass cages disguised as protection. Because what kind of writer am I, with so much rage, loss, and pain—and no words for it? I perform this act of rebellion in the dark, turning anger into art, grief into poetry, and fear into metaphors.

There is a strange beauty in the duality we carry. We are made to believe that we are always on the verge of madness, but maybe this is what selfhood looks like when it refuses to be dimmed. For us, passion and hysteria live in the same room, where one is celebrated and the other is villainised. But this fine line between madness and ambition was never meant to be walked; it was meant to trap us. What they call chaos is often just the weight of constant endurance. What they portray as insanity is often just a response to unending oppression. There is no end to this, no wins and no redemption. No amount of sacrifice will ever be enough.

So I write. Not to heal or to prove myself, nor to inspire, but to document the injustice, the unfairness, and the inequality. I write to give form to what the world chooses to ignore. It is the only way I can give weight to every swallowed scream, every sincere nod, and every quiet surrender. Only we know what it means to constantly balance on the tightrope of reverence and ridicule. We learn early to sugar-coat every sentence and dull the edges of our knives before we speak. So I write, not for grace, but to bear witness. My work is the trace I leave behind—proof that I was here and I witnessed it all. It is both my quiet revenge and my unyielding resistance. In the end, the last word is mine to speak.

Nafisa Afreen Megha is an aspiring writer from Dhaka, Bangladesh. Her work consists of her thoughts, carefully put into words and turned to poetry. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English at North South University.