I don’t feel completely whole unless I’m writing. Unless there’s some part of me bleeding across the page. And I wish other people understood that. I wish I could explain the feeling I get when I let the words rolling around in my head come alive. I wish I could explain my desire to write to write—to just share what’s on my mind because it matters to me in the moment.

I write for a living, and so I write every day. And all those words carry meaning, but sometimes I just want to write for me. I want to tell a story about a random seagull, staring at me from across the sand, or the way the wind feels on my skin, or the sound of the waves.

And lately, I’ve been so wrapped up in writing for work that I haven’t just been able to slow down and feel.

It’s ironic, because everything I put on paper for work is packed with feelings. Is true to my heart. Is sometimes painful, even.

But what I’ve missed is just being able to stop life and write without a purpose. To just let my fingers touch the keys and see what happens.

Like right now.

Right now, I’m sitting on the beach in my swimsuit and a jean t-shirt. It makes me laugh, because if I was back in Chicago, I’d be dying for this weather. I’d be sweating. I’d be thanking God for the warmth.

Here, I’m chilly. Here, the sun has dipped behind the clouds and feels cool on my skin. It’s strange how you adapt to the circumstances and situations around you. But even though the air feels cold, I still know I have so much to be thankful for.

Thankfulness.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been needing. I’ve needed a moment to sit back and be thankful. To feel the air, the sun, the peace that comes when I stop trying, and let myself just be instead.

Maybe today’s words have no real meaning. Maybe they’re just spewed thoughts typed to a page.

But it feels healing, in some way, just to say them.

To know that today is a new day, and I am able to live, to write, to love. To be thankful.