For as long as I can remember, writing was my safe place. My therapy. My everything.
It was how I made sense of chaos, how I survived heartbreak, how I celebrated joy. I was the girl who always carried a notebook. Who stayed up too late writing poems she’d never show anyone. Who processed the world through paragraphs.
And then… I just stopped.
No dramatic moment. No final chapter. Just one day, I didn’t write. Then I didn’t the next. And then, I forgot how.
The Silence Was Loud
At first, I blamed it on life. Too busy. Too tired. Too much noise.
But deep down, I knew the truth: I had nothing left to say—at least not in the way I used to. Writing, once my lifeline, had started to feel like pressure. Like performance. Like I was writing to keep up with who I thought I should be.
And so, I stopped.
No journal entries. No creative bursts. Just silence.
It scared me more than I care to admit. Because if I wasn’t a writer… who was I?
I Thought I Was Losing Myself.
But I Was Actually Coming Home.
When the words disappeared, I panicked. Writing was my identity. It was the lens I used to make myself lovable. Interesting. Useful.
But something strange happened in the stillness.
Without constantly turning moments into metaphors, I began to actually live them. Slowly. Unfiltered.
I sat with my emotions instead of scripting them. I let go of being profound. I let go of trying to “capture the moment” and just felt it instead.
I laughed without thinking, This would make a good essay.
I cried without needing a beautiful sentence to justify the tears.
For the first time in a long time, I was just… me.
Not the writer. Not the content creator. Just a human.
I Was Writing My Way Out of Myself
Looking back, I realize I had used writing like armor. It let me tell the truth without fully living it. It helped me connect with people without letting them all the way in.
Writing gave me a voice, yes. But sometimes, it drowned out the quieter parts of me—the parts that needed rest, curiosity, silence.
And maybe that’s what I’d been missing all along.
I Came Back to Writing
But This Time, I Brought Myself With Me
Eventually, the words returned. But softer.
Now, I write when it heals me—not when it validates me.
I don’t write to be seen. I write because I see myself again.
Not everything I write is profound. Or publishable. Or poetic.
Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s just a sentence.
But it’s mine. And so am I.
If you're in a season where your creativity has gone quiet, maybe it's not a block. Maybe it's a signal. Maybe your soul is asking you to feel before you tell. To live before you label.
You’re not broken.
You’re just becoming.
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