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It’s no secret that life is a process.
We’ve all gone through some stuff, are going through some stuff right now, or will deal with some stuff in the future! Stuff is a natural part of life. But it can be a real challenge to find a way to process that stuff in a way that feels healing, safe, cathartic, and grounding. This is what I’ve sought my entire life: a ritual or practice to process life’s big and small stuff in a way that felt like me.
Throughout my journey, I’ve tried many different things. Some of them were more effective than others: dancing to exhaustion, climbing mountains and rock faces till my arms and legs were shaking, and meditating for longer and longer periods. I’d push my body harder and harder, and then, inevitably, I’d pull out a piece of paper and a pen and get out what physical exertion couldn’t.
I wrote about everything in my life – the big and the minuscule, and it wasn’t on purpose or with intention. It just made sense to me. I’m a little embarrassed to say that it took decades of writing to realize that the practice I’d been searching for was baked-in. I’d been doing it all along. I just needed to lean into it.
I’ll be honest. It seemed too obvious at first. “How could writing possibly be “enough?” I thought. “It’s so simple. It’s something I’ve done my whole life. No way is it flexible enough to accommodate my inner chaos. Besides,” I continued, “I’m not that good at it anyway. I’m no author. I’m just me.” And part of that was true. I was, and still am, just me.
It turns out that being “just me” is more than enough.
Being “just me” or “just you” is the secret sauce to any piece of writing because no two writers are the same. We each come to the page with our unique experiences and perspectives. And as much as we’d like it, there’s no roadmap to becoming the writer we’re meant to be. We simply put one foot in front of the other, one word after the next.
Writing helps us make sense of our experiences, not just our own but everyone’s. Only by seeing through someone else’s lens can we hope to understand one another. Our stories unite us, and it doesn’t matter if we’re writing to preserve our family history, to process our experiences, or find connection and belonging. They’re all expressions of our humanity!
When I was young, writing seemed too easy. It was functional. A means to an end. In actuality, writing is profound. The power and the complexity lie in the infinite ways we express ourselves through words.
It has been central to many meaningful connections over the years. It’s offered me a process I can rely on when I feel adrift, and it’s given me opportunities to refine my understanding of self and my place in the community. For this, and so much more, writing has changed my life.
I cannot imagine who I’d be today had I not discovered the power of pen and paper. Before word processors and smartphones, paper and pen grounded me when I felt adrift, comforted me when I felt alone, celebrated with me when I felt joy, and when the Internet arrived on the scene, words were what connected me to people like you.
It may sound outlandish, but I reiterate: writing has, quite literally, changed my life. And if you think about it — all the times words have inspired you, handwritten notes have moved you, and songs have transformed you — it’s obvious.
Words change lives.
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