Writing has always been important to me. When I was a little girl, I found solace writing in my personal diaries. I recall sitting on my bedroom floor, with music in the background, divulging every thought I had that I didn’t feel comfortable, or perhaps more accurately, didn’t have the courage to share aloud. Later when I started college, I felt protected when I wrote in my journals. Laying on my bed, not yet feeling comfortable in my own skin, or having my tribe to rely on, my journal became a trusted friend that I could say anything to, at any time. Later still, I turned to writing as I grieved my grandparents and when I celebrated my parents’ milestone anniversaries. I wrote to my future husband, documenting layers of emotion throughout our fairytale courtship. I wrote when I miscarried. I wrote to my babies’ future selves, and I wrote to reflect and oftentimes reconcile what can be in direct conflict working both in and outside of the home.
I wrote days after my dad passed away — not from his two-year battle with lung cancer, but instead because of tragic and unexpected complications from pneumonia. I co-wrote his obituary with my family, and words of remembrance that I delivered at his funeral. It was the most pressing pose, yet most difficult to denote.
And I write now – with candor, vulnerability and honesty. I write for myself, I write so my young children have insight into who I am. I write to give voice to my personal thoughts. Most importantly, I write so I can quiet the deafening thoughts in my head.
I’m not asking for permission. I’m not asking for acknowledgment. I’m not asking for praise.
I’m writing because I crave closure. It’s part of the fabric of my soul. Writing helps me close one thought, one chapter, one moment and move to the next. Without it, I feel trapped, unable to move forward with intention or purpose.