Trigger warnings are everywhere these days, expected, almost mandatory. Frowned upon when not included. People see them as a sign of respect, a courtesy to prepare readers for heavy themes. But I made a deliberate choice not to include them in my work. Not because I don’t care about my readers, but because I care too much to water down the experience.
I don’t write to make people comfortable. I don’t write to be shocking, either. I write to be honest. And honesty isn’t always easy to swallow. Life doesn’t give us neat little disclaimers before things fall apart. You don’t get a warning before heartbreak guts you, before grief takes hold, before the weight of the world presses down on you.
So why should my writing pretend otherwise?
My work explores love, loss, trauma, and healing. It's messy, raw, and unfiltered. It’s meant to be felt. If I were to slap a warning on every difficult moment, I’d be telling you to brace for impact instead of letting you step into it naturally, on your own terms.
The expectation of trigger warnings assumes that pain is something we should be able to avoid. But pain doesn’t just go away because you’ve been given a heads-up. Life will still happen. And healing? Healing isn’t found in avoidance. It’s found in feeling. In facing things head-on, even when they’re difficult.
More than that, warnings colour the experience. If I tell you beforehand that a piece contains grief, you enter it expecting grief. That expectation changes how you read and how you absorb the words. But if you go in without knowing, you might connect with it in a way that’s deeper, more personal, because you weren’t bracing for it, you were living it.
Some might argue that even a general content warning would be enough. Just add a vague note acknowledging the themes without specifics. But that too would change the way the work is received. It would plant the idea that certain emotions or experiences should be approached with caution, when in reality, they are simply part of our shared experience. I don’t want to create distance between the reader and the work before they’ve even begun.
I trust my readers. If you’re in a place where certain topics feel too heavy, I trust you to step away if needed. My work isn’t here to trap you. It’s here to be experienced. Take what feels right and leave what doesn’t.
This isn’t a lack of empathy; it’s a sign of respect. I don’t believe in shielding people from reality, but I do believe in their ability to navigate it. Life is heavy sometimes. My writing is too. But there’s meaning in that weight, something worth holding onto.
And that’s why I didn’t add a trigger warning, and probably never will.
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