Writing Reflection

I remember the very first time I was introduced.



 I just learned to read and understand the words that came out of the souls of others.  I was only a little girl but books constructed my imagination and I was transported to the mythical lands of far away. I studied and read. I fantasized all about what it would be like if I was someone else and lived in another time.

It was a short time later that I discovered that I can tell my own stories. That I can orchestrate my own words and write how I feel. Get it out on paper and see my thoughts staring back at me.

Writing became my escape, my confidant. Writing taught me how to pray. It showed me that God was interested in my “first draft offering”. My emotions saturated my broken sentences and I was able to speak on paper to God. Writing taught me freedom.



I kept prayer journals faithfully and they gave me the gift of catharsis.  I shared every pain and confusion, every embarrassment, every record of unrequited love. I shared my hopes and dreams. It was a beautiful arrangement. I understood so much about myself during my prepubescent and teenage years. This depth of awareness stemmed from the fact that my journals were capturing every storm and calm that occurred during that time. I saw what made me angry, happy, sad, excited. I felt understood.



 My relationship with writing has not been the same as it was back then.  But it can grow even deeper as I develop and my perspectives are cemented. I have fallen into the trap in being overly critical of my writing. I have taken the joy out of it. I have robbed it of its poetry and childlike enthusiasm. There was a time not too long ago where I believed the lie that I lost my writing ability and I could never find it again. This poisonous belief paralyzed any desire that I had. I was unable to move forward and progress. I was trapped in a creative drought, parched for the refreshing springs of confidence and passion.  I went on like this for a significant amount of time, shackled by my monotony.



One day I was desperate to be reunited and I opened my journal and just wrote. I just wrote what I was feeling. I wrote down my thoughts. my emotions, my pains, my anguish, my fears. I wrote it down and I wasn't concerned about perfection. This was a means of necessity. I just had to write.  Even though my writing confidence wasn't fully strengthened after, I knew that I made a step on the journey of creative restoration.



Now I am realizing that I am not unable or deficient in writing. I have a unique story to tell and a responsibility to tell it. Through all of this, I now know that I shouldn't listen to the negative thoughts that circulate my mind and lie to me, telling that I am not good enough to write. I refuse to believe it even if they grow from my own insecurities. I will defy the fear and act in spite of it.





Writing is survival.

 Writing is therapy.

 Writing is clarity.

 Writing is prayer.

Writing is meditation.

 Writing provides sanctification

Writing offers healing.







I am good enough to write.

In the timeless words of Julia Cameron,



I have the right to write.