Why I Started Writing Again
When I was younger, I used to keep a journal. I wrote in it almost every day. Writing became my escape. It was something I loved without even realizing how important it was to me at the time.
I used to sit in a small corner of the bedroom I shared with my two sisters—and later my nephew—and just write. My mother couldn’t afford vacations, so writing became my way of going somewhere else. I would create stories, imagine different worlds, and pour my thoughts onto paper. That was my peace.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped.
I spent most of my life in survival mode—trying to work, go to school, and figure life out while moving between places, including my grandmother’s house. Writing slowly became something I no longer made time for.
Then life kept moving.
After getting married, having a family, and going through different life changes, I didn’t realize how much I had lost myself. I was so focused on taking care of everything and everyone else that I stopped taking care of me. My mental health wasn’t the best, and I didn’t even fully realize how much I needed an outlet like writing.
My Mental Health & Life Changes
Having a hysterectomy affected me more than I expected.
Even before that, I was already dealing with depression, anxiety, and ADHD. But after everything—marriage, kids, responsibilities—I started feeling overwhelmed in a different way. I became irritable, angry, sad, and exhausted. I was constantly worried and carrying so much on my mind.
I tried to journal again over the years, but I would fall off. Life would get busy, and I would go right back to focusing on my family, forgetting to check in with myself.
Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just “busy”—I was disconnected from myself.
What Inspired Me to Start Again
I’ve always had ideas.
Stories, thoughts, and creativity have always been there, but I never sat down long enough to bring them to life. I was always doing something—taking care of the kids, helping with homework, making dinner, or just feeling too tired to do anything at all.
Most nights, I would fall asleep early because I had no energy left.
But something started to shift.
Going to therapy helped me realize how much I needed to make time for myself. My therapist continues to work with me, and I’m learning that healing isn’t just about talking—it’s also about doing things that bring me back to myself.
And writing is one of those things.
I realized that if I want to heal, I have to make space for me too.
So I started again.
Not perfectly. Not every day. But I started.
What Writing Means to Me Now
Writing is no longer just something I “like” to do—it’s something I need.
It helps me slow down and actually hear my own thoughts instead of constantly thinking about everything I have to do. It gives me a moment to breathe.
Writing is helping me rediscover who I am outside of being a mom, a wife, and everything else life has placed on me.
It reminds me that I still have a voice.
That my thoughts matter.
That my story matters.
Even on the days when my mind feels scattered or I don’t feel like myself, writing gives me a place to come back to.
Some days it’s messy. Some days it’s short.
But it’s mine.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m doing something for me—not out of obligation, but because I truly want to.
Closing
I’m still learning. I’m still growing. And I’m still finding my way back to myself.
But this time, I’m not leaving writing behind.
