Sometimes I like to think that writing chose me, not the other way around. It’s an old idea, sure, but I picture some great cosmic tide depositing me on this particular shore—pen in hand—just as surely as it washed up the fragments of sea glass scattered along the beaches of Bar Harbor. Writing is how I make sense of the world, of myself, and of human relationships, which can sometimes feel as unpredictable and messy as a Maine nor’easter. It’s how I’ve navigated first loves, heartbreaks, and all those little in-betweens. But why do I keep at it? Why not trade my pen for a simpler life of birdwatching and lobster rolls? (Tempting, but no.)

Here’s why. Writing, for me, is both my anchor and my sail. It keeps me grounded and, at the same time, pushes me toward uncharted waters. Think of this as my love letter to writing and all the ways it lets me explore the essential art of connection—both with nature and with people.

Finding Clarity in the Chaos

Writing is essentially my toolkit against life’s occasional (okay, frequent) confusion. As anyone who has navigated a modern relationship knows, clarity is not a given. One day you’re basking in the glow of a flirtatious text exchange; the next, you’re double-checking what “LOL, sounds fun” actually means. (Is it fun? Did they mean it?!) Writing lets me unravel those knots. On paper, with all the messy details splayed out, I create some semblance of order—or at least find humor in the chaos.

Take my first relationship in college. Let’s call him “Brian.” Brian was sweet and charming in the way math-y boys often are: he could wax poetic about algorithms but couldn’t quite figure out why you don’t pair socks with Birkenstocks for date night. That relationship taught me plenty—like how people can love in their own quirky ways—but when it ended, I felt the kind of emotional turbulence only Ben & Jerry’s and a journal could soothe.

Writing during that time was part catharsis, part therapy. Scribbling all the things I couldn’t say out loud made me realize that what I wanted wasn’t just Brian’s version of love. I wanted something wilder, more unpredictable, like a forest path I hadn’t explored yet. Writing helped me articulate that truth to myself, and when I finally did, it felt like stepping into the crisp, cool air of an Acadia morning.

The Stories We Tell (Ourselves and Each Other)

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned both as a writer and a human fumbling through relationships, it’s that stories matter. We’re always telling them—sometimes to others, sometimes to ourselves. “We met at a coffee shop,” we proudly recount to our friends, omitting (conveniently) the part where we spilled half a cappuccino on their shoe and considered never showing our face in town again. Or we’ll say, “I guess that’s just who I am—bad at love,” when really we’re just scared of the vulnerability real connections demand.

Writing reminds me that I have the power to reshape those narratives. And let me tell you, this makes a world of difference in both life and relationships. Feeling down about a breakup? Rewrite the story: it’s not “I wasn’t good enough,” but “That wasn’t the right fit for me, and I’m making space for something better.” Overthinking every text to your crush? Reframe it as a chapter in your beautifully awkward (and ongoing) book of “How to Be Human.”

When I was writing my memoir, I dug into some of these same dynamics, exploring how growing up in nature shaped how I view love and connection. Relationships, much like ecosystems, thrive on balance. There’s no thriving forest without its fallen logs, no fresh tide pools without the occasional high tide sweeping things clean.

Writing as a Mirror, Writing as a Window

There’s a coastal trail I love in Acadia that leads to an overlook. Sitting there, surrounded by gray-blue Atlantic mists, you can see the world staring back at you—a mix of jagged rocks and boundless, sparkling possibilities. Writing feels like that trail for me. It’s both a mirror and a window, showing me who I am while also revealing new paths forward.

In relationships, this has been a game-changer. During one particularly rough romantic patch (let’s just say my taste in unavailable men was at its creative peak), I wrote nature-inspired letters to myself. Literal love letters, addressed to me, filled with lessons from the natural world. One went like this: “Dear Abby, tide pools only thrive when left undisturbed long enough to let their secrets settle. Maybe you should take a page from their playbook and focus on your own ecosystem for a while.”

Spoiler alert: It worked. And years later, I found myself in a connection that felt as steady and sure as the rise and fall of the Maine tides. Turns out, all the reflection paid off—I was finally ready for something real.

Why Write? Because I Have To

Writing about relationships—nature-inflected metaphors and all—isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am. Sure, the accolades and the readers who say, “You wrote what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t quite say” keep me going, but at its core, my need to write is selfish in the best way possible. It’s how I understand the delicate interplay between love, loss, hope, and compromise. It’s how I chart my course when the compass spins wildly.

Picture this: a small desk stationed in front of a wide window overlooking the Bar Harbor shoreline. Outside, seagulls chatter like gossiping friends, waves tumble joyfully onto the rocks, and distant lobster boats bob against the horizon. That’s where I write most days. That’s where I turn life’s raw material into stories—stories that might help someone else as much as they help me.

But that’s writing, isn’t it? An offering as much as it’s a craft. If I’m doing my job well, my words don’t just belong to me anymore. They become a kind of lighthouse for others navigating their own stormy seas of love and relationships; a reminder that, no matter how rugged the path or how dense the forest may seem, there’s always beauty to be found if you look closely.

So whether I’m jotting down notes about tide pools or heartbreak, crafting essays about Maine’s coastline or the shifting terrain of the human heart, I’ll keep writing. Not because I need to, exactly, but because writing has given me a life full of meaning, clarity, and growth.

And because—let’s be honest—without it, I’d just be over here yelling at seagulls about my ex’s questionable sock choices.