The Sound of Healing
The typewriter wasn’t just a machine; it was my lifeline. Its keys, clicking in rhythmic succession, carried the weight of my thoughts, translating the chaos in my mind into something tangible. Each press of the key felt like a small act of defiance against the confusion that swirled around me. The metallic ring of the carriage return was the punctuation to every thought, a tiny victory that meant I was making progress, even when life seemed to stand still. There was something deeply grounding in the mechanical, deliberate act of typing—something that allowed me to shape the noise in my head into coherent words.
I wasn’t just learning how to write; I was learning how to live. At a time when the world felt unfamiliar, unpredictable, and out of control, the typewriter offered me something constant. It didn’t ask questions, it didn’t judge. It just existed as a tool, ready to help me express everything I couldn’t say out loud. It was a place where my emotions could spill out, unrestricted and raw, where I could sort through the jumble of fears and dreams that danced in my mind like restless shadows.
Years later, when computers replaced typewriters, I missed that sound. I missed the tactile connection—the solid click of each key beneath my fingers, the sense of achievement that came with each line of text. Writing on a typewriter demanded focus. It forced me to confront my thoughts, to organize them, and to make sense of them. There were no backspaces, no quick edits. You had to get it right, and in doing so, it gave me the tools to survive. It taught me patience, discipline, and the importance of pushing through difficult moments.
The stories I wrote weren’t just stories. They were pieces of me—fragments of a little girl trying to find her place in a big, confusing world. They were my way of telling the universe, and myself, that I was here. That despite the upheavals of moving from town to town, despite the fractured family life, I had a voice that deserved to be heard. Each word I typed carried a part of my soul, a snapshot of the woman I was becoming.
And then there was Mama J. Always present, always unwavering. Her quiet strength and unshakable faith were the anchor that held me steady during the most turbulent of times. She never pushed or pressured; she just quietly made sure I had everything I needed: paper, ribbons, space, and, most importantly, time. Time to write. Time to heal. It was as if she knew, before I fully understood, that writing would be my salvation. She never asked what I wrote, never sought to read it, but the subtle act of providing me with the means to do it spoke volumes about her love and trust in me. She understood the power of words. She understood the power of letting someone find their way through their own journey, even if that path was made of ink and paper.
As I grew older, the typewriter eventually faded into the background, replaced by newer technology. The machines became sleeker, faster, and more efficient, but none of them could capture the magic of the typewriter. In the quiet hum of a computer, I couldn’t find the same rhythm. I didn’t hear that satisfying clack with each press of the key, or the familiar thrum of the carriage return. Writing became something more fleeting, less tangible. But even though the tools changed, the act of writing didn’t. And so, I continued to write. Through scribbled journals, emailed stories to myself, and letters stored in boxes and drawers, writings on post it notes, index cards, church bulletins, or even shower walls, I continued to sort through the clutter of my mind, piece by piece. And though my writing has grown with me, it still carries the essence of those early days on that typewriter.
In many ways, writing is still my lifeline, just as it was when I was a little girl in that suburban Texas town. It’s how I make sense of the world. It’s how I confront the unknown, how I continue to heal. The rhythm of the keys, the clack and the pause, have become a part of me. It is a sound that I carry with me, even when I am not at the machine. It is the sound of progress. It is the sound of survival.
As I reflect on these early moments of my journey—those quiet hours spent at that typewriter, typing out the stories of my life—I realize something profound. The healing didn’t just come from the words themselves. It came from the act of writing them. From giving myself permission to speak, even in the quietest of spaces. And, like the typewriter itself, I continue to find ways to shape the chaos, to make sense of the mess, and to create something that feels real and lasting. Something that connects me to the person I am today and the person I am still becoming.
