Why I Write

What do you do when you are lost?

When I lose my way in the physical world, I just keep moving forward.

Not in a straight line, but in a spiral. Sometimes rising, sometimes descending. The spiral turns in every direction, but I know the destination lies at the center. I orbit closer each time to where I know I need to be. My compass is intuition and self-knowledge.

But in a deep psychological context, I write to make sense of what cannot be said aloud– to hold the contradictions of the world in one hand and say, This too belongs. I write to stay close to my soul, to map the geography of loss and beauty, of silence and becoming. I write because I have to. Because when I don’t, the distance between who I am and who I pretend to be grows unbearable.

Writing is my return. It is the sacred thread that weaves me back into alignment. When the world feels too loud or too fast, when I forget who I am or why I matter—writing is how I come home.

I write to remember.

I write in search of clarity and guidance, through these conversations with my Self– my Soul.

I write to heal. It's my peace of mind. My best friend.

I write to transmute pain into presence.

I write to place meaning like stones in a river, so I can cross.

I write to light the way—not because I know the way, but because I’m walking it too.

There is a lineage to this impulse. George Orwell said he wrote out of a “desire to push the world in a certain direction.”

Joan Didion confessed she didn’t always know what she thought until she wrote it down.

Thomas Wolfe burned with longing, believing writing was “an act of discovery” as much as expression.

 These writers weren’t just documenting life; they were wrestling with it.  They didn’t seek answers as much as they sought honesty.

Like them, I write from the threshold—between self and other, past and future, seen and unseen. My themes are longing, memory, impermanence, and the quiet strength it takes to live without numbing. I return to childhood, to exile, to grief—not to stay there, but to uncover the soul’s patterns beneath the pain.

To write is to live twice. To notice the second life running beneath the first. I write because the world is both brutal and beautiful, and I can’t hold it all without language. I write to speak with those I’ve never met, and to become the person I’m still becoming. I write to survive, yes—but also to witness. To stay awake.

I do not write for applause. I write for connection. For the whisper across time that says, “You’re not alone.”

In the end, I write because it saves me. And because, if I do it with honesty, it might save someone else, too.

There's always hope. And that's why I write.