I’ve always found comfort in creation.

When words fail, I draw. When colors blur, I write. Somehow, these two worlds of art and writing have always become my quiet companions through the noise of professional life.

In my day-to-day work, everything feels structured, logical, and measurable. There are deadlines to chase, numbers to justify, and strategies to align. From the outside, I may seem like someone who takes things lightly; the “que sera-sera” kind who can laugh things off. But beneath that calm surface, I’ve often battled with restlessness. My mind rarely stops searching for meaning or worrying about the next step.

That’s when I return to my sketchbook.

Ironically, when I feel most anxious or lost, my drawings become more colorful, almost defiant, as if my imagination refuses to sink with me. It paints the joy I cannot express, the light I cannot yet feel. Through lines, shapes, and hues, I rebuild a sense of balance between who I am and what the world expects me to be.

Writing works differently. It gives my thoughts a voice. It doesn’t fix the chaos, but it organizes it just enough to make sense of the mess inside my head. Through writing, I learn to listen to myself, to my emotions, and to the quieter truths that get buried under daily noise.

Over time, I realized that my creativity isn’t separate from my professional life, it fuels it.

My ability to imagine things helps me map strategies, find connections, and solve problems that logic alone cannot. Every project becomes a kind of canvas, where structure and imagination coexist.

So yes, Stories Drawn, Dreams Written isn’t just a title. It’s a reminder of how I live, balancing reason with wonder, profession with passion. A space where ideas bloom, even on uncertain days.