You know those rare moments when you discover something that feels like it’s always been a part of you? That’s how writing and art found me in grammar school. It wasn’t just about winning every creative writing contest or getting published before high school — though that happened too, it was about finally finding my voice, my truth, in the flow of words and sweep of pencil across paper. My creative outlet for frustration, anger, sadness and joy.
Writing, especially, became my sanctuary. All the wondrous possibilities it held… I could draw entire worlds from the well of imagination, crafting narratives that pulled others into the depths of my mind. It was like finally being able to breathe after holding my breath for too long. All those emotions, those thoughts that would tangle and twist inside me, they’d pour onto the page like water breaking through a dam.
But life, with all its relentless demands, has a way of reshaping our dreams. My endless stories gradually receded into late-night journal entries, written in stolen moments between responsibilities. Years later, when I found those journals, my heart broke anew with each page I read. All those writings still pulsed with such raw emotion, such desperate longing. Those frantic wishes, penned in moments of deep vulnerability, for things that were never destined to be — they still had the power to bring tears to my eyes, and make my chest tight with remembered pain.
My art, my writing — they’re not just hobbies or skills. They’re as much a part of me as my beating heart, as vital as any limb. The very thought of selling these pieces of myself, of commodifying these fragments of my soul… feels like a betrayal. How do you put a price on the pieces of yourself that you’ve poured onto paper in moments of pure, unfiltered truth?
Then came that day by the fire pit. There I sat, ripping out pages and feeding those journals to the flames, watching years of my innermost thoughts curl and blacken then float away as ash. The strange emptiness I felt surprised me. No relief, no regret, just… absence. Sometimes I still catch myself thinking they’re tucked away in that old suitcase in the basement. But no — only the good memories remain, waiting like buried treasure for my children to discover someday.
Now, in this new phase of life, with my children writing their own inner stories, I’m finally learning to share these pieces of myself. I’m playing piano more, letting words flow again, even publicizing my stories — one precious fragment of my soul at a time. It’s terrifying and liberating all at once.
You live long enough, you collect stories like shells on a beach — beautiful ones, broken ones, ones that make you laugh until you cry, ones that make you cry until you laugh. We all do this, gathering these moments that shape us. But the way we express them? That’s the divine spark of individuality within each of us. How we express ourselves is how we bare our soul to the world. If you listen and look closely you’ll learn more than what is spoken, or written.
I often wonder what makes certain writers reach right into your chest and squeeze your heart. Is it their ability to mirror our own hidden thoughts? The way they pull us so completely into their world that our own reality blurs at the edges? Or maybe it’s simpler than that — maybe it’s just the raw honesty of sharing these deeply personal truths, these moments of pure vulnerability, that resonates in the depths of another’s soul.
That’s where I find myself now — learning to trust others with these pieces of myself that I’ve held so close, for so long. It’s taken a lifetime to reach this point, to be ready to share these intimate parts of who I am. But maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly how long this journey needed to take. Because some stories, the ones that live in the marrow of our bones, need time to ripen before they’re ready to be told.
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