We once moved together like three points in orbit. Time shifted the gravity, distance grew, and I learned that love does not mean holding on.

The house became a series of invisible rules that were enforced by the mother’s gaze, a gaze that often fell elsewhere, distracted by the constant stream of dangers she imagined.

I AM. I AM. I AM. Project is a way of understanding who I am when no one else is in the room. The project is a personal excavation. A return to honesty after years of speaking in borrowed language.

I knew, eventually, that if I were to be true to myself, I had to see it through. Not because anyone was waiting, not because there was a promise of recognition or even understanding. Simply because the work needed to exist, even if its audience was only me.

Three children occupy the center of it. I do not name them; it is enough to observe. Their movements are small and precise, their voices measured.

Grief pressed in long before I had a name for it. It lived in quiet rooms and in shadows that lingered even when light broke through. It was relentless.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) stands as a haunting testament to the mind’s fragile architecture, a profound disruption where the normal rhythms of memory and time splinter beneath the crushing weight of trauma.