Hello, digital world. It’s been a minute. But it’s time for me to finally face this. It’s time to return to myself, to my roots. Why have I been so scared? I grew up with writing as my outlet, always reaching for a pen and paper or a blank document screen—an invitation—never something to fear.

But somewhere along the way, I lost that. At first, I think I lost it because I was trying so hard to create an entire, sustainable life around me. I was on the precipice of my new life and my old life—a twenty-something who stepped away from the security of her first ‘real’ job to create a business—and I knew I had to put my head down and make something of myself if I really wanted to be successful.

So, I traded moments of freedom through writing for building a business, brand, and a lifestyle that was sustainable only because of the safety provided by hard, foot-to-the-gas-pedal work.

But then, time passed, and that ‘rush’ of success became a perpetual mindset—navigating life with hyperindependence because I knew that everything rested on my shoulders—and it did.

Before I even met my ex-husband, I believed that a good life was built with my two hands, and that I would reap what I sowed. So, I sowed until my fingers bled. And yes, somewhere along the way, I fell in love. And love makes you do stupid things. But it also brings you back to your heart. So, for a little while, I was distracted by that love and realigned with my emotions again. I wrote again. I poured out love poems and poetry, capturing what my Piscean heart really felt—passion, depth, clarity, hope.

But when you’re unequally yoked, eventually you realize you can’t love someone into being the person you believe them to be, the person that they very well may have the ability to be, but choose not to for reasons you may never know. So, again, my creativity shifted. Not because I was losing love, but because I was losing myself. I put my head down again, convincing myself that the harder I worked to provide for my family, the more things would fall into place. I had convinced myself that my worth was in the things I did—and not the person I am—because it was easier than admitting to myself that the man I thought I’d spend forever with didn’t love me with the same tenacity. And at the time, I couldn’t see that someone’s inability to love me didn’t mean I was unlovable.  

So, I buried those thoughts and worked harder. And the harder I worked, the less energy I had to put the pen to paper—the more writing felt like a burden than an escape.

But, if I’m being honest, I was scared. Because every time I write, I know. Every time I write, I say the words I can’t quite admit aloud. And I didn’t want them to be true—that the life I worked so hard to build, the family I fought to hold together, was never mine to keep.

So, I stopped writing, stopped sharing.

It took me almost six months after the separation to get back to that freedom again. To remind myself of the power of my words, the peace they gave me. To acknowledge that who I was—who I am—has been here all along. She was just too afraid of everything falling apart the moment she let go.

Stephen, my therapist, tells me that I feel more deeply than most. And he’s right. I think that’s a part of why I’ve been scared to write. Because knowing that you’re a person who feels more intensely than the people around you—even the people you love the most—is incredibly isolating.

When you realize that the most powerful breakthroughs, the most pivotal conversations in your life have been your own voice echoing the truth back to you—it’s hard not to feel lonely.

But, like I told Stephen a few weeks ago, I’d rather be alone but free to be myself.

So, little by little, I’m chipping away. I’m opening those pages, watching my cursor blink on the white screen. Closing off the world, even for a moment, to return to myself. To remember who I am. And she is not defined by those she loved, who didn’t love her, or any of those chapters in the book.