Writing is hard.
It’s such a simple but weighted statement: Writing is hard. But as much as I run from it, I can’t avoid this thing that is woven into the fabric of my being.
Writing is my first love.
I lean on it when there’s no one and nothing else to turn to. I reach for it when I’m surrounded by loved ones who don’t understand. I return to it when I’ve neglected it for seasons on end. Writing is hard but it has my heart.
I mourn when the paralyzing fear consuming my spirit keeps me away from it. I dwell on it constantly, even when I don’t always have the audacity to face it.
I can’t shake it even when life gets in the way. It’s everpresent, waiting in the wings of my subconscious for me to once again embrace it.
My first love.
Writing was there the moment I could hold a pen steady between my fingers. It showed up when I shared with my second-grade class I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.
It extended itself to me when the shames and struggles of a fatherless adolescence damaged my psyche. It was there for a life-changing heartbreak and the necessary self-discovery that followed.
Writing has never left me, even when my fragile ego and crippling self-doubt urged me to walk away.
So I manage to find my way back, even while agonizing over what will manifest when we reconnect. I may not always get it right, but I’m choosing to show up and give it what I have.