Writing My Way Home: How The Borderline Between Us Became My Therapy

When I first started The Borderline Between Us, it was supposed to be a nonfiction book inspired by my dating life. I wanted to write about the messy, funny, gut-wrenching stories—the almosts, the red flags, the heartbreaks that made me question everything and the flings that made me feel alive again. I thought I was writing about them.

But the more I wrote, the more I realized I wasn’t telling their stories—I was trying to tell mine.

What started as essays about dating slowly unraveled into something deeper. I found myself writing journal entries instead of chapters. Notes to myself. Therapy sessions on the page. Letters to people I couldn’t talk to anymore. And before I knew it, I wasn’t just writing about love—I was writing through pain, shame, trauma, abandonment, identity, and ultimately, healing.

Living with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) means emotions don’t just visit—they crash through the front door. Love is consuming. Silence is terrifying. Rejection feels like the end of the world. So I wrote.

Writing became a way to survive the in-betweens—the spirals, the rupture-and-repair cycles, the ache of feeling too much and still not enough. It gave shape to the chaos in my head and let me slow it down enough to actually hear myself.

It became a mirror. And not the flattering kind. The kind that forces you to look at the parts of yourself you’ve tried to bury. The parts you’re scared will make people leave. But the more I wrote, the more I realized those parts deserved a voice too. They weren’t shameful. They were human.

Every journal entry in The Borderline Between Us is a breadcrumb back to myself. I didn’t write this book with structure in mind—I wrote it with survival in mind. And somehow, it grew into something far bigger than I planned. The pages listened when no one else could. They held me when I was unraveling. And eventually, they helped me understand myself in ways I never had before.

And then something even more beautiful happened—readers began to see themselves in my story. They reached out to say, “I thought I was the only one who felt like this.” That’s when I realized: this book didn’t just help me heal—it’s helping others feel less alone too.

So no, The Borderline Between Us didn’t begin as a memoir. It didn’t begin as a self-help book. It didn’t even begin as a therapy tool. But that’s what it became.

And in many ways, it still is.