Why do I write?
I began writing as a teenager, during one of the most challenging times of my life. Locked within the walls of an adolescent psychiatric facility, I turned to writing as a lifeline. It was a way to make sense of the emotional trauma I carried, a way to find solace when the world around me seemed insurmountably chaotic. Pen to paper became my sanctuary. Through writing, I could explore the depths of my emotions, no matter how raw or tangled they felt. In those moments, I connected with myself and began the slow, transformative process of healing. Writing taught me to embrace love, tolerance, vulnerability, and understanding—not just for others, but for myself.
Over time, my writing evolved. What began as an intensely personal journey of survival and growth shifted into an adventure of exploration and connection. As I ventured into the world, I chronicled my travels through journals filled with vivid descriptions of places I’d seen and people I’d met. Writing became my way of preserving the wonder of discovery, of tethering myself to the experiences that shaped me.
When I became a wife and mother, my writing found new purpose. I began documenting the precious, fleeting moments of family life. Sticky notes captured snippets of my children’s hilarious musings, while bathtub crayons turned shower walls into impromptu canvases for my thoughts. These small acts of writing felt monumental, preserving the essence of our lives in the midst of their beautiful, messy chaos.
But writing has never been a choice for me; it is a necessity. The words tumble around in my brain like clothes in a dryer, refusing to settle until they spill onto the page. When I have more to say, it is often during times of profound grief and despair. Cancer has brought these seasons into my life—periods when writing feels like both an anchor and an exorcism. It transports me back to the hospital, where I first learned to write as a form of self-soothing and healing. During these times, my words are heavy with sorrow but also luminous with the hope of understanding and release.
At other times, I write simply because I want to remember. Photography and videography allow me to capture moments visually, but writing embeds them into my mind and soul. Through words, I relive the laughter, the tears, the quiet moments of connection. Writing ensures that these memories will not fade, that they will remain as vivid as the day they occurred.
I write not only for myself but for those who come after me. My words are a bridge to past and future generations, a testament to our shared stories. I write so my children, their children, and their children’s children will know who we were, where we came from, and what we believed in. Writing is my way of preserving the essence of our lives, ensuring that our voices echo long after we are gone.
Storytelling runs in my blood. My ancestors were storytellers, weaving tales to connect, teach, and inspire. It is imprinted in my DNA, an unyielding force that compels me to write. I do not know how to stop, nor do I want to. Writing is not just something I do; it is who I am.
And so, I write. I write to heal. I write to remember. I write to connect. I write because I have to. It is my legacy, my solace, and my voice—woven into the fabric of my existence, as natural and essential as breathing.
