I haven’t taken the time to truly write anything in a few months. It’s been years since I published anything for public consumption. At work, I would write formulaic case studies, but outside of that, I wasn’t writing much at all.

I’ve been off work for the last two weeks, trying to manage the grief of 2022, 2023, and 2024. From layoffs to losing childhood friends, loved ones, and even facing a divorce and breakups, I was hit with all the rage and sorrow at once. I also learned about the grief of return after spending both the winter and summer abroad. I think reality broke for a while.

I cried over things I lost in childhood—the loss of innocence, the silencing of my voice, shrinking myself into tiny boxes for the comfort of others, feeling less so I wouldn’t fall apart. In the midst of all this, I found my way back to the one thing that’s always been there for me, something reliable: writing. Writing my thoughts, opinions, and sharing stories to make sense of an experience has always been my anchor. In writing, I trust.

Today, I took time to reflect on the things I’ve accomplished. While updating my portfolio and working on a new blog project, I felt alive, connected, and in the groove again. I’ve been finding healing in my first love, and I cried when I realized how easily I fell back into communion with my muses.

I often tell the story about how I’ve kept journals since I learned to write. If I didn’t have pen and paper, I would write on the walls. I’ve always had something to say and share—using stories to express a universal desire: to be known, to be loved, to be heard, to be seen.

So, as I make sense of this new world I’ve stepped into—as a divorcee and a “mom-ty”—I can still call myself a writer. That has been the common thread. My consistent friend and my first love.