pixels, pages, and pieces of me
Expression is less about making sense and more about making space.
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Creative expression is taking the mess inside your head and throwing it out into the world—through paint, words, movement, or code.
Whatever gets the job done.
It’s less about the how and more about the release.
It’s personal. But somehow, it pulls others in too.
Like a signal flare from one soul to another, saying…
“You feel this too, right?”
It digs into shared experiences, crossing lines where words alone just won’t cut it.
It’s also a mirror.
A way to map the uncharted corners of your own mind.
When you create, you confront parts of yourself you didn’t know were hiding—turning feelings into shapes, thoughts into colors, chaos into something you can hold.
And yeah, it’s therapy, even if it’s messy.
It drags emotions to the surface, gives them form, and helps you breathe through them. Whether it’s heartbreak, joy, or everything in between, creative expression makes space for it all—and sometimes, that’s the only thing keeping you afloat.
At its core, it’s a snapshot of the human experience.
A way of telling the story we all carry—our fears, dreams, losses, and hopes—each creation another breadcrumb on the trail of who we are.
This is my story of how creating became my lifeline.
At dawn, the world smelled like wet earth and possibility.
Phone in hand—my trusty sidekick—I was ready to catch whatever moment begged to be remembered. Deep in Ontario’s woods, I used that tiny lens to pin down nature’s beauty, hoping the videos would somehow tame the storm inside me.
My phone stopped being just a gadget; it became a lifeline. A way to turn the noise in my head into something visible. Each tap of the screen felt like translating thoughts too slippery for words.
It wasn’t random.
My heart called the shots, guiding my hands to focus, shoot, and capture exactly what I needed to say. The wind-tossed leaves were a snapshot of inner chaos. Ripples breaking across the lake acted as a mirror for everything unsettled.
And when my soul quieted down, the lens found stillness—a lone flower, a tree’s cracked bark—videos that shared moments of introspection, delicate but steady.
Every video told a story, but not the kind you spell out.
These weren’t just videos—they were maps. Each frame, each clip, charting a path through the mess, the quiet, and everything in between.
At first, my posts were all scenery.
Forest trails. Waterfalls roaring. Trees swaying in the breeze. You’d see wild landscapes, but never the person behind the lens.
No face. No voice.
Just the crunch of twigs beneath my boots and the occasional breath caught on camera. It was like I was there and not there all at once. Present, but not exposed.
Those videos were a tribute, in a way.
A way to capture the peace I found outside, even if I wasn’t ready to say much about the storm inside me.
Nature was my escape hatch.
My quiet rebellion. But eventually, things shifted.
It happened slowly. Without planning. Landscapes gave way to something more personal. My voice started slipping in, small at first. A comment here. A thought there.
A face—mine—finally appeared.
What once was just footage of trails and trees morphed into stories.
Not just where I was, but what I was carrying.
A turning point snuck in through the simple act of brewing coffee on a tiny camp stove. My hands in the frame, setting up the pot. The hiss of the flame. Steam rising against the forest background.
It felt like a small scene, but in those moments, it wasn’t just about coffee. It was about showing myself—bit by bit. The ritual of making that cup became a symbol. Of patience. Of finding warmth in wild places.
Each post became a little more open, peeling back the layers.
My restless nights.
My tangled thoughts.
Hopes I barely admitted to myself.
I went from silent observer to participant, one upload at a time.
And then came the night under the streetlight.
I hit record, exhausted and wired from a sleepless night. I didn’t script it. Didn’t overthink it. Just started talking. About my fears. About the insomnia that clung to me like a second skin. About the doubts that kept me up and the peace that always felt just out of reach. It was raw, messy truth.
And when I pressed “post,” something inside me cracked open.
The response hit like a tidal wave.
People from every corner of the world flooded the comments with their own stories. Some thanked me. Some shared their struggles. Strangers connected across pixels, stitching together threads of empathy, fear, and understanding.
Each video after that carried more weight, but not in a way that dragged me down. They became markers of progress, entries in a public journal I didn’t know I needed.
What started as solo reflections turned into conversations.
A scattered collection of moments became a web of shared healing.
It was never just about the videos. It was about showing up. Letting the world see the messy, unfiltered parts of me—and finding, to my surprise, that I wasn’t alone in it.
In the jumble of photos and videos, I found another outlet: journaling.
A leather journal sat stashed in my car, worn and frayed, its pages crammed with every unfiltered thought I couldn’t say out loud.
Every day, I let it all spill.
Ink soaked into paper, dragging along whatever feelings bubbled to the surface.
Rage, joy, fear, hope—they bled together, uninterrupted.
Writing wasn’t just an outlet. It was release. Therapy without the therapist. That journal caught everything, no judgment, no interruptions.
I started small—mundane stuff. The cold grip of the steering wheel. The distant hum of traffic. How canned soup tasted better than it had any right to.
But soon, simple thoughts cracked open deeper ones, and my words began pulling the past into the present, knotting them together like threads in a fraying sweater.
One bitter night in February, I wrote about a friend I’d lost to time. A few pages later, I unraveled a nightmare I couldn’t shake, rooted in the haze of my old rave days.
Some entries came out in messy bursts—half-sentences, scribbles, arrows pointing nowhere. Others were neat, deliberate, almost poetic, each word a stone carefully placed on a path toward meaning.
The pages mirrored me—chaotic on some days, peaceful on others.
They carried song lyrics, random doodles, and lines I stole from philosophers and psychologists, as if their words could steady me when my own failed.
That journal became more than paper and ink.
It became a lifeline. A ritual.
Each page was a marker.
Another day survived. Another lesson tucked under my belt.
With every entry, I wasn’t just writing. I was weaving my own story—one of resilience, of finding beauty tangled in the mess, strength buried under fear, and hope rising from the ruins.
Somewhere between the writing and the videos, I found a language that made sense. A way to translate feelings I couldn’t explain, mapping out the chaos of my own mind. Each post, each page, was a breadcrumb, leading me deeper into myself and offering others a glimpse of the journey.
At first, TikTok and journaling was just for me. A way to tackle my anxiety, one awkward post at a time.
Each video and journal entry was a small step forward.
A quiet win. A move toward reclaiming my mind from the chaos.
What started as a mindless distraction turned into my battlefield. This wasn’t just for fun anymore. It was war. Me versus the thoughts that never shut up.
A fight for peace in a brain that refused to stay quiet.
Then, something wild happened.
People I didn’t know—silent watchers—started showing up in my messages. They told me how my videos reflected their own struggles, like holding up a mirror to their pain.
Somehow, by sharing my mess, I was giving them hope.
Some even said my posts had saved them. I stared at those words in disbelief.
Me? Life-saving?
How could my clumsy, messy truth help anyone?
It was humbling in a way that words don’t quite capture.
And just like that, the game changed. What started as a personal fight became something bigger. It wasn’t just about quieting the noise in my head—it was about letting others know they didn’t have to battle alone.
With that shift, my TikTok took on new life. My feed stopped being a personal diary and grew into something else—a space for those struggling in the dark.
A place to rest. To connect. To feel seen.
Looking back now, the shift feels surreal.
What started as me trying to make it through the day became a movement—a collective pursuit of healing, hope, and resilience. My little corner of TikTok became more than a platform.
It became a place to be real.
A space in a crowded, noisy world reminding us all: You’re not alone in this.
But TikTok wasn’t enough. The connections we built there needed more room to grow. I wanted to make sure no one got left in the dark between posts.
So, I started a daily text service. A way to reach out directly.
No fanfare—just a simple text saying, “Hi, you’ve got this.”
That little text line—+1 (256) 685-4443—became a lifeline.
A cornerstone of everything we’d built. Each message sent was a spark of encouragement, a reminder that even on the hardest days, you’ve still got another step in you.
Those texts were tiny seeds of resilience, scattered across phones, taking root wherever they landed.
Something incredible happened. The text service created momentum. It wasn’t just about sending messages—it was about building something bigger than ourselves.
A community that didn’t just connect; it healed. Together.
Day by day, these small actions sparked real change. Every text, every video, every shared story nudged someone forward—maybe just an inch, but forward all the same.
And somewhere along the way, those tiny sparks became something unstoppable—proof that healing isn’t something we have to do alone.
It’s something we build together. One step. One story. One message at a time.
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
P.P.S. “Creativity isn’t about the finished product—it’s what you find along the way.”
Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You
Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.
Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.
Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.
This book is more than just words—it’s our story.
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