Why I Write

On the reasons I want (and need) to write

I like to write.

I know writing isn’t for everyone. Sometimes it can be easier to say whatever needs to be said out loud and then let it go in true Elsa fashion. 

But you see, letting go has never been easy for me. Even after I speak my thoughts out loud, they come right back to me like a boomerang—leaving me to overthink the words that just came out of my mouth. 

Did I really just say that? That’s not at all what I meant. I promise it made much more sense in my head.

So, I write.

I write to make sense of the world around me. To process the flurry of thoughts that come and go, but especially the ones that stick and won’t leave until I put pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard).

Even more so, I have a difficult time letting go of the way my son looked up at me as I was tucking him in for bed and said, “I love your whole self, Mom. And you’re a pretty girl.” Or when my daughter decides to end bath time by grabbing the built-in bath handle as her very own makeshift ballet barre, swaying her arms and swooshing the lukewarm water with her toes. 

How can I possibly let these fleeting moments go?

I can’t. So, I write.

I’ve never been able to shake this deep desire to connect. The persistent feeling I have to make someone—just one person—feel less alone.

So, I write.

I write to share the inner workings of my soul with the world, in a vulnerable attempt to extend a hand to say you’re not alone. To tell stories and to share my experiences as I live them—through the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

I tend to forget a lot if I rely solely on my memory. This is especially true of those details that, in the moment, seem like there’s no possible way I will ever forget. But I do. The more time that passes, the more distant, blurry, and out of focus those memories become.

So, I write.

I write to remember these days that I have been gifted—this life and all its messiness. I write because everything is temporary, and I want to preserve memories and feelings that I would otherwise forget. To remember. To ensure my memories are recorded somewhere outside of my own body, in hopes that they can live on for longer than I will. To leave a legacy of sorts for my kids to discover when they are old enough (and I hope, interested) to read.

I write to slow down. To relish in the way the sunlight pools into the living room in the late afternoon, highlighting my three favorite people that I am grateful to call my family.

I write because I have a hard time letting go of all the things that make up this life.

I write because I am alive.