I’ve always loved to write, I remember having notebooks, papers and journals scattered everywhere, all filled with feelings, emotions and secrets. As I grew I found I had an affinity for thick paper and smooth pens, the means to my release in a world where I felt unheard. When pen met paper, the words could flow freely and honestly and that was enough.
But when life started to get challenging, when I should have been questioning who I wanted to be, what was important to me and the life that I wanted to lead, I did not find solace in my paper and pen. Instead I tucked my trusty companions away, painted a smile upon my face, held my head up high and continued moving forward.
When I was finally ready to write again, it was as if I had forgotten how to tap into the energy that pulsed within me. Deep in my heart and in my soul, I could feel the need, but I had forgotten the way. Something that had come so naturally to me, had been suppressed and pushed so deep that I could barely find the words to express myself. When I did finally manage to write something, it felt so raw and so vulnerable.
But as I’ve found myself this past year, so too have my words found me. These days, I frequently feel the urge to write, to release, to set my emotions free and when I read the words in front of me, they feel magical, beautiful, honest and free.
And I do too.