How writing saved my life

Writing has been the only way in which I could (and still can) fully express what’s going on inside of me.

I’ve always felt somehow misunderstood, as an old soul who spoke some alien language that not many could understand.

But when I wrote, the walls dissolved and magical connections happened.

Ever since I was a little girl, I had notebooks where I would write poems that conveyed my feelings in a way that now, looking backwards, were too deep and profound to fit in that little girl’s body.

My maternal grandfather, Abi Jose, sparked in me my love for writing. He would always get me books as presents. Not one or two, but entire collections of them. I dreamt too that, one day, I could be one of those writers that had my name splashed over books that traveled the world.

I had a happy childhood. I really did. So I can’t quite understand why almost every single one of my writings was tainted with pain. I just knew that when I wrote, nothing else mattered. I could spend hours filling pages and pages and pages. To end up feeling liberated, renewed, high on life and love.

I remember clearly how my mom used to cry when she would read my notebooks. She couldn’t understand what had happened so that I could be so sad. I see now, as a grown woman myself re-reading all those words, how difficult it must have been for her to see her baby girl splashing so much pain in all those pages.

I used to write letters to the boys I liked.

I wrote letters to my parents.

My classmates.

And so many letters to myself too.

I won writing contests.

As I grew up, people paid me money to do their homework and write for them.

I have used my writing to create a powerful community of people around the globe.

I finally wrote a book.

Writing has allowed me to connect with strangers on different corners around the world who have become family.

I’ve written to try and make sense of every broken heart I’ve had.

I’ve written to process the deaths of my loved ones.

Oh, yes. When my mom got sick and she then passed, all that kept me sane was being able to write.

To purge the deepest pain and loss I have ever experienced.

To feel her near, even if I can’t see her.

Writing saved my life, you see.

In my ever-changing life, it has been the only constant.

The only thing that remains.

My place of calm and safety.

If it wasn’t for writing, my dear writing, I don’t know how I could have ever navigated my growing pains, my nomad lifestyle, my immigration, my anxiety and my depression, the deaths of my loved ones.

Writing helps.

I’ve verified it over and over.

In my own life and in the lives of my clients too.

So, if you don’t know what else to do.

If you don’t know how to navigate life.

If you feel the burden of the world on your shoulders.

If you want to release and breathe again.

Just write.

And write.

And write.

Until there’s nothing left to be written.

And, maybe, writing, my darling, will give you hope and save you too.