Photo by Dawid Łabno on Unsplash
It was a warm summer night in Krakow, Poland. I was 13, scribbling furiously in my journal, a worn-out notebook filled with angsty poetry and philosophical musings. Back then, Polish was my playground, my secret weapon. Without the constraints of a second language, my words flowed freely.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Courage to Create to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.