HOLLOW WIN
This past month was undoubtedly the most successful month we’ve ever had.
What used to be my ghost month has become one of the best months of my career as an independent creator. I was able to attend MIBF, join Komiket in September, and secure more events that I never imagined would come one after another. There’s Komiket Originals this upcoming weekend, October 17–18, and GGCON: onKOL, where streamers, content creators, and gaming influencers will come together for a day to showcase their work, share their merchandise, and meet their communities in person.
Looking at everything happening around me, I know I should be happy. And a part of me genuinely is. These are opportunities I’ve worked so hard for, and seeing my work reach more people has always been a dream of mine.
But there’s something strange about celebrating victories when the rest of your life feels like it’s falling apart.
I’ve been winning in places where people can see me, but behind the scenes, I’ve been struggling with things I don’t quite know how to explain. And that’s what makes all of this feel a little hollow.
Phantom Memories
The first thing I want to talk about is something I’ve been experiencing lately: what I’ve come to call my phantom memories.
These past few weeks, I’ve been struggling with sleeplessness. And when I do manage to sleep, it’s guaranteed that I’ll dream. What makes it unsettling is how closely my dreams seem to follow the things I worry about or think about throughout the day.
For example, I might think about my last meal before going to bed, only to dream about it that night. When I wake up, I sometimes find myself questioning whether it actually happened or if I only experienced it in a dream.
It sounds simple enough, but it becomes frightening when it happens repeatedly. The longer this goes on, the harder it sometimes becomes to separate what I dreamed from what I genuinely remember. It’s as if my dreams are borrowing pieces of my real life and stitching them into something that feels just as believable as an actual memory.
And sometimes, I can’t immediately tell the difference.
What scares me isn’t just the confusion itself. It’s the possibility that I might remember something incorrectly. What if someone said something to me, but I remembered their words differently? What if I became certain about something that never actually happened the way I thought it did?
I don’t want to misunderstand people or make decisions based on something I’m not even sure I experienced.
Because of this, I’ve started relying more on my notes on the phone and written records. I try to write things down so I have something concrete to return to when my own recollection feels uncertain. But even that comes with its own anxiety. I find myself worrying about whether I’ve recorded enough, whether I’ve understood something correctly, or whether I can trust my own mind to make sense of everything.
It’s exhausting to question something as ordinary as a memory.
As a writer, I’ve always loved the way our minds can construct entire worlds. I’ve spent years creating stories, imagining characters, and making things feel real through words. But there’s nothing romantic about experiencing that uncertainty in your own life. I don’t want to lose the distinction between the things I create in my imagination and the things that actually happen to me.
I don’t know exactly why this is happening, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions. What I do know is that it’s affecting me enough that I need to take it seriously. I’m hoping to get proper help and understand what’s going on, because I want to feel grounded in my own life again.
I want to trust my memories without having to interrogate every single one of them.
The Chapter I’m Afraid to Write
The second thing is much more personal.
Writing has always been my dream. It has become such a huge part of my life that sometimes I forget how much of myself I’ve poured into it. And one of the most beautiful things about that dream is that I got to share it with my husband. Having someone beside me who understands the work, the sacrifices, and the little victories makes the journey feel even more meaningful.
But lately, it feels like something between us is changing.
We’ve been married for two years, going on three, and recently, we’ve had conversations that could change the course of our lives. Conversations that are difficult to have, even more difficult to process, and even harder to put into words.
Nothing is final yet. Maybe that’s why I’m still afraid to talk about it openly. There’s a part of me that worries that saying it out loud will somehow make it more real, as though giving it a name means I’ve already accepted that it’s going to happen.
I know that isn’t necessarily how life works. But when you’re holding on to something you love, even the possibility of losing it can be difficult to face.
So please forgive me if I’m not brave enough to share the details just yet. I’m still trying to understand what I feel, what everything means, and what the next chapter might look like. Some things are difficult to talk about when you’re still living through them. Sometimes, you haven’t even finished processing what happened yesterday, and life is already asking you to make decisions about tomorrow.
We’ve recently tried therapy, and tomorrow, I’m also planning to look for a therapist who can help me understand what I’ve been experiencing from a more medical perspective. I want to understand myself better and find ways to cope with everything that’s happening.
I’ll admit that a part of me feels embarrassed to share this. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do. It’s difficult to be vulnerable about something so personal, especially when so much of what people see from me revolves around my work, my books, and the things I’m building.
It’s easy to share a book launch. It’s easy to post about a successful event, a sold-out product, or another opportunity coming my way. Those are things I can celebrate with people without having to explain the complicated emotions underneath.
But it’s much harder to tell people that, behind those accomplishments, I’m struggling to get out of bed.
It’s harder to admit that the life I’ve been working so hard to build is also the life I’m currently afraid of losing in ways I never expected.
Still, as a writer, I’ve learned to look at the world through a different lens. Stories have taught me that sometimes, the most important parts of a character’s journey happen in chapters where nothing seems to be going right. There are moments when the character has to confront things they’ve avoided, acknowledge truths they’ve been afraid of, and accept that love alone doesn’t always make difficult situations easy.
And sometimes, the character has to ask for help.
I never imagined that I would find myself applying those lessons to my own marriage.
I’m not sharing this because I think I have the answers. I don’t. I’m not trying to teach anyone how to handle their relationship, because every marriage is different, and what works for one person may not work for another. I’m still learning, too.
But one thing I’ve come to understand is that you cannot keep carrying everything alone and expect yourself to be okay.
You can love someone deeply and still need help navigating what happens between you. You can want something to work and still acknowledge that wanting it isn’t the same as knowing how to make it work. You can pray for a situation to change while also recognizing that there are things you need to confront, communicate, and work through.
And perhaps one of the hardest lessons is accepting that you cannot do all of those things for another person. You can only do your part.
I’ve been trying to learn that, even when it hurts.
When Winning Doesn’t Feel Like Winning
These past few weeks have been filled with tears, despair, and moments when I genuinely didn’t know what to do with myself.
I’ve been trying to stand up again, to keep going, and to stop myself from sinking too deeply into everything that’s happening. But some days, I don’t have much strength left to give.
I’ve even stopped writing in my physical diary.
That might not sound like much, but writing things down has always been one of the ways I process my life. It’s where I can be honest without worrying about how my words will sound to anyone else. It’s where I can put my thoughts somewhere outside my head and try to make sense of them.
Lately, though, I haven’t had the words.
Sometimes, I just lie in bed. I stare at the ceiling, think about everything that’s happening, and feel too tired to do anything about it. Then cry a lot to the point that my head hurts so bad. There are things I want to write, but I don’t know where to begin. There are feelings I want to understand, but I don’t know how to explain them.
And then there’s the guilt.
I feel guilty for not being more productive. Guilty for not being able to enjoy my accomplishments the way I think I should. Guilty for feeling so low when there are so many things I once prayed for that are finally happening.
How can I be so blessed in one part of my life and feel so lost in another?
How can I celebrate the opportunities I’ve received while quietly grieving the possibility that something else I treasure might be slipping away?
I’ve spent so much time working toward this life. Every book, every event, every small step forward has taken time, effort, and sacrifices that people don’t always get to see. And now that some of those efforts are finally bearing fruit, I find myself struggling to enjoy them because I’m afraid of what might be waiting for me at home.
It’s a strange kind of grief, mourning the possibility of losing something before you’ve even lost it. You’re still here. The people you love are still here.
Nothing has been decided. And yet, you find yourself grieving a future that might never happen, because the uncertainty alone is enough to hurt.
I know I shouldn’t write the ending before the story is over. I know that.
But knowing something doesn’t always make it easier to live through it.
For now, I’m trying to give myself permission to be human. To acknowledge that I’m not okay without convincing myself that I’ve failed. To understand that I can be grateful for what God has given me and still be afraid of what I might lose.
Maybe I don’t need to turn every painful experience into a lesson immediately. Maybe I can simply admit that it hurts and allow myself the time to process it.
Even writers need time to figure out what a chapter means.
Holding On
I went home to see my mom recently.
She prayed for me, and I could feel how worried she was. There’s something about being a child in front of your mother, no matter how old you get. You can grow up, build a career, publish books, organize events, and try your best to be strong for everyone around you. But when your mom looks at you and knows something is wrong, it’s difficult to pretend that you’re okay.
I know she wants me to be happy. I know she wants things to work out for me. And I wish I could give her the reassurance that everything will be fine.
But the truth is, I don’t know what will happen.
I’m learning that there are things I cannot force, no matter how desperately I want them to work out. I cannot force a timeline. I cannot force certainty out of a situation that hasn’t reached its conclusion. And I cannot make every difficult thing disappear simply because I’ve prayed for it to.
All I can do is show up, do what I can, ask for help when I need it, and trust God with the things beyond my control.
My faith has always been a huge part of my life, but I think there’s a difference between trusting God when things are going well and trusting Him when you’re terrified of what might happen next.
It’s easy to thank Him when doors open. It’s easy to see His goodness when the opportunities arrive, when the books sell, when the invitations come, and when the things you’ve worked so hard for finally begin to make sense.
But what about when you’re standing in the middle of a situation you cannot fix? What about when you don’t understand why something is happening, or when the future you’ve been praying for suddenly feels uncertain?
I’m trying to hold on to what God has promised, even when I don’t know what His answer will look like.
I’m trying to remember that faith doesn’t mean I have to pretend I’m not afraid. It doesn’t mean I have to hide my tears or convince everyone that I’m doing well. And it doesn’t mean I should sit still and expect everything to resolve itself without taking the necessary steps.
Sometimes, faith means going to therapy, or admitting that you need help.
Sometimes, it means getting out of bed even when you don’t feel like yourself, writing down what you can, and taking one small step toward the things you cannot yet understand.
And sometimes, it means surrendering the outcome because you’ve finally accepted that you cannot control everything. I’m still learning how to do that.
For now, I’m hoping for a miracle. Not necessarily the kind that changes everything overnight, but the kind that gives people the courage to face difficult conversations. The kind that brings clarity where there’s confusion, healing where there’s hurt, and wisdom where there are decisions to be made. The kind that reminds people why they chose each other in the first place, if there’s still a way forward together.
I’m praying for peace, even if the answers take time.
I’m praying for my mind to find rest, for my heart to find its footing, and for the courage to face whatever comes next without losing myself along the way.
And I’m praying that, one day, I’ll be able to look back at this chapter and understand why I had to walk through it.
I don’t know how this story ends. I don’t even know what the next few pages will look like.
All I know is that I’m still here, still trying, still praying, and still holding on.
Maybe that’s all I can do for now.
Because this month, I may have won in so many ways. I may have reached milestones I once dreamed of, received opportunities I once prayed for, and found myself standing in places I worked so hard to reach.
But some victories feel hollow when the things you treasure most are uncertain.
And right now, I’m learning that it’s possible to have so much to celebrate and still have a heart that needs healing.
I’m not ready to call this a happy ending.
For now, it’s simply a chapter I’m trying to get through, one day at a time.
And I hope that, when I finally turn the page, I’ll understand why I had to let go of the things I couldn’t control, and what God was teaching me to hold on to all along.