I can still remember the exact moment I fell in love with writing. I was sixteen, sitting in the corner of my high school library, wearing a cardigan two sizes too big (oversized, as any self-respecting teenager would deem “chic”), scribbling what I thought was a groundbreaking poem about magnolias and lost love. In retrospect, it was probably about a boy who hadn’t texted me back, but at the time, it felt like Pulitzer material. That’s the thing about writing—it has this uncanny way of making even the ordinary feel extraordinary.

What started as a teenage outlet for angst and melodrama evolved into something deeper, something tethered to who I am at my core. Writing became not just a passion or a career but a lens through which I understand the world. Much like finding someone who laughs at your dumb inside jokes and brings you chicken soup when you’re sick, writing consistently shows up for me. And that, my friends, is why I keep returning to the keyboard, day after day. Let me explain.

Stories Are How We Connect

Let’s face it—whether we’re swapping bad date stories over cocktails or recounting a childhood memory during a long car ride, humans are hardwired to share through storytelling. Writing feels like the purest extension of that connection. It’s a daily reminder that my experiences, no matter how specific they seem (looking at you, allergic reaction to a mint julep at an Atlanta charity gala), are never entirely unique.

For instance, I once wrote a piece about growing up in a household where Sunday dinner had as much ceremony as the Met Gala—complete with monogrammed linen napkins. To me, it was just another glimpse into the quirkiness of Southern tradition. But to my surprise, people reached out to say it reminded them of their own family rituals. Some replaced fine china with paper plates, others celebrated with Sunday pizza instead of roast beef, but ultimately, the sentiment was the same: These shared moments ground us. Writing illuminates those small but powerful truths.

Writing = Therapy (That Doesn’t Send You a Bill)

Look, I’m all for licensed professionals and self-help books—I once spent three weeks obsessively color-coding my life goals after devouring “Atomic Habits.” But there’s something cathartic about pouring your soul into words on a page. Writing has the ability to transform even the messiest emotions into something tangible, something you can examine and then make peace with.

Take heartbreak for example. When I was 23, fresh out of college, I went through the kind of breakup that compels you to listen to Adele’s “Someone Like You” on repeat while dramatically staring out a window. Writing through that time helped me reclaim my voice, even when I wasn’t quite sure I wanted it back. I channeled my feelings into dialogue and prose, creating characters who were brave enough to say all the things I couldn’t yet articulate. Funny enough, those fictionalized versions of myself taught me to confront reality with a little more grace—and a lot more humor.

So no, writing won’t tell you whether you should stay in your situationship or ghost entirely, but it will help you figure out what you want. And that, I think, is worth any occasional wrist cramp.

It’s the Closest Thing to Time Travel

Confession: I rarely re-read my journals from high school because they’re an embarrassment of adolescent riches. (Does the world really need more references to braces-wearing boys who looked like the cast of Laguna Beach?) But when I do peek back, I’m amazed at how vividly writing can resurrect old memories. It’s like opening a dusty window to the past—the good, the bad, and yes, the hilariously cringe-worthy.

Even in fiction, words hold this magical power. When I wrote my first novel, I wove in snippets of my Southern upbringing—neighborhood potlucks, the stubborn charm of Savannah’s cobblestones, my grandma’s pearls gleaming against her church dress on Easter Sunday. Every sentence felt like a love letter to the South I knew, while also acknowledging the complexities lurking beneath its graceful façade. Writing allowed me to capture those fleeting moments before they dissolved into the ether.

When I think about the stories I want to leave behind, I picture someone generations from now flipping open a book I penned and feeling an inexplicable connection to a stranger who once lived, laughed, and overused em-dashes. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s naïve. But isn’t that what makes it beautiful?

A Perfect Imperfection

Here’s the thing I’ve accepted after many years and too many first drafts to count: Writing is never perfect. Sometimes a piece flows effortlessly, like finding out your Bumble match also loves The Office. Other times, it’s like trudging through knee-deep molasses, only to realize your big metaphor doesn’t work and your “light humor” earned exactly zero out-loud laughs.

But therein lies the beauty. Writing forces you to embrace imperfection, which—as it turns out—applies to pretty much everything else too. Relationships stumble, careers veer off course, and bad haircuts lurk around every bend. The key is to keep showing up, keep trying, keep learning.

So much of writing mirrors love itself: It’s messy, vulnerable, and occasionally makes you question why you ever started in the first place. But when it clicks—when the words tumble out in just the right order or a reader messages to say, “Hey, I felt that too”—it’s undeniable magic.

Why I’ll Always Keep Writing

Ultimately, I write because stories are a bridge, a balm, and occasionally a reality check (anyone else use their cringe anecdotes from college parties as cautionary tales?). Writing taught me to see both the humor and depth in life, whether we’re talking platters of peach cobbler at a family reunion or the quiet ache of saying goodbye.

I write to connect. I write to heal. I write to immortalize the moments that might otherwise slip through the cracks. And let’s not forget—I write because nothing feels quite as satisfying as typing “The End” and rewarding yourself with a generously poured glass of wine.

So if you’ve got a story swirling around in your head or heart, trust me: Write it. Write it even if it’s messy and vulnerable and destined to live in your Google Drive for eternity. Because if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s this: Writing, much like love, is always worth it.