A room without locks or judgment, where writing becomes refuge, mirror, and home. From the trembling of what’s lived to the sweetness of what’s felt, this intimate space gathers the words that don’t dare to shout, yet refuse to stay silent. Because writing doesn’t always heal, but it always holds. And sometimes, that’s enough.
By Lidia Roselló
HoyLunes – I don’t know if writing saves me or undoes me, but I keep doing it. I write from the ordinary and the contradictory. From the corner where guilt hides, where love isn’t always comfortable, where decisions hurt but also set us free.
Have you ever felt that way?
The orange room is a space where I “lock myself in” to understand the world and, most of all, myself. I’ll talk to you about writing, emotions, women, about the things that burn inside us, even if no one else sees them.
I’m not here to give lessons or answers. Only to write from the heart, to give voice to those who need it.
There are days when I’m not a writer, or a photographer, or a journalist. I’m just a woman trying to keep life from slipping through my fingers. And so, I write.
Why do you write? You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been asked that. And my answer is always the same: To keep from overflowing.
I write to hear myself inside. To create silence amid all the noise. To remind myself that I can choose myself without guilt.
As a little girl, I wrote to invent beautiful worlds, decorating my stories with characters cut out of my mother’s magazines. As a teenager, I to scream without making a sound. And today I write to empty myself, to breathe deeply, to understand myself in the quiet.
I don’t write from perfection or constant calm. I’m often impulsive in life. I write from pain, yes, but also from what makes my heart tremble with beauty. From what moves me, from what I want to protect, from what I dream of building.
Sometimes I write simply to figure out what’s happening to me. Other times, to celebrate the fact that I dare to feel. And often, just to leave a trace in the world that I am here. Alive, changing, imperfect…
I’ve written from the train, from the kitchen while waiting for the stew to be ready, from the beach, or the solitude of the studio. And every time I do it, I always return home. Writing doesn’t always heal me, but it always, always holds me.
I remember one time, in the middle of the night—because I’m one of those who wakes up very early—I got up before the alarm went off. I felt something in my chest heavier than sleep. Anger mixed with fear, a desperate need to shout to the world that I exist. That morning, as the sun rose, I wasn’t looking for beautiful words—just the truth.
I don’t know if you write too, or dance, or run, or keep voice notes you never send. But if you’ve ever felt like what’s inside of you needs to come out so you don’t overflow… then this room is yours too.
Whatever the case, I hope you have a refuge. I’ll always leave the door slightly open.
If you’ve never written before, maybe today is the day. Don’t do it thinking about publishing, or for others to read you. Do it to listen to yourself, because too often we silence ourselves. Because we all need a place where we can spill over without fear.
And if you haven’t found it yet, this room—orange, alive, imperfect-is waiting for you.
You know now, come in without knocking. Because together, we are thieves of moments, collectors of emotions, and writers of the everyday.
#hoylunes, #lidia_roselló,
