Why do I write? I could tell you it’s because of some grand, ineffable purpose; some deep need to document the human condition. And sure, that sounds impressive—like the kind of thing you’d find carved into granite outside a library. But let’s be real: I write because it’s complicated to be human and even more complicated to figure out what we’re doing with other humans.

And, okay, maybe because I like the sound of typing keys in the quiet of my apartment, where the ocean’s hush drifts through the windows like punctuation. Writing is one of those rare activities where chaos starts to make sense—a kaleidoscope coming into focus. It's less about creating order and more about turning the messiness of life into something oddly beautiful. Like turning your failed relationships into a playlist that inexplicably slaps.

But more on that later.

The Origins of an Obsession

I grew up in Santa Barbara, a place so idyllic it’s practically a Pinterest board of sunsets, palm trees, and second dates over wine flights. My parents taught me the value of connection—whether it was with neighbors, the environment, or the arts community. They hosted fundraisers where people would connect meaningfully over a shared cause. And maybe without realizing it, that taught me something foundational: we’re all trying to find threads that bind us, whether over wine and hors d’oeuvres or through shared experiences on a page.

But I didn’t seriously think about writing until college, when a failed attempt at impressing someone turned into my first essay-worthy moment. I wanted to dazzle my intro philosophy class crush, so I spent two weeks crafting an overcooked piece of fiction that somehow included Plato’s cave allegory and a tidal wave metaphor (yikes). Turns out, she didn't love it, but my professor did. Instead of a coffee date with Natalie from the second row, I got a newfound sense that my words could carry more weight than my awkward in-person jokes.

Even when life handed me victories or heartbreaks, I’ve always turned to the page to figure out what it all meant. It was easier than journaling for a therapist I was too broke to afford. Writing became the place where I deconstructed big questions without trying to land the answers too neatly. What makes us pursue people we aren’t ready for? Why does love turn complicated the second it gets real? Why do we always text our exes during Mercury retrograde? Writing doesn’t give me solutions, but it gives me space to unpack the questions.

The World’s a Story—And We’re All Characters

Here’s the thing: stories aren’t just for rom-com protagonists or the latest binge-worthy drama on Netflix (though, yes, I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the god-tier storytelling that is Perfect Match). We’re all living stories, and writing lets me step back and see the plotlines that are unfolding—not just for me but all around me.

Take dating, for instance. Navigating the world of love—especially in a city like Santa Monica, where yoga instructors and aspiring screenwriters are practically interchangeable—is a subplot all its own. Each first date is like a freshly laid page: What’s this person about? Are they here for a connection, or are they just killing time until their Lululemon sponsorship kicks in? And when things fall apart? That’s the perfect fodder for a story arc about heartbreak, resilience, and “accidentally” running into them at the farmer’s market.

Sometimes, I think about relationships as mini ecosystems—messy but astonishingly interdependent. You can’t protect delicate kelp forests without understanding the currents, just like you can’t build a relationship without seeing the hopes and fears that drive another person. Writing is how I explore those parallels. It’s my way of looking at how the micro (like an awkward first meeting) fits into the macro (like the universal quest for love).

Writing as a Mirror

The funny thing about putting your thoughts into words is that it forces you to look at yourself more closely. Writing about a breakup feels like trying to explain Moira Rose to someone who’s never watched Schitt’s Creek—simultaneously hilarious and deeply existential.

Take, for example, the time I wrote about moving to Los Angeles and fumbling through my first real heartbreak. As I built out the essay, I slowly realized how much my relationship had mirrored my struggle to let go of Santa Barbara—my cozy hometown, my too-comfortable familiarity. I wasn’t just mourning a person; I was grappling with what it meant to evolve, to stop clinging to what was safe. If I hadn’t written that, I might not have seen that connection. Writing pulls out the threads I often don’t know are there, like venturing into an attic and stumbling upon forgotten treasures.

Why I Keep Writing

Writing isn’t just therapy or storytelling. It’s how I connect to others—and myself. And sure, I could wax poetic about all the tools it’s added to my emotional toolbox, but here’s the real deal: writing makes me more human. It forces me to embrace my quirks, my flaws, and my deeply questionable taste in 2000s pop-punk playlists.

I’m no stranger to writer’s block, by the way. Some days, writing feels less like meeting an old friend for coffee and more like trying to parallel park into an aggressively tight spot. It’s frustrating, humbling, sometimes outright brutal. But I keep writing because eventually, there’s that moment when everything clicks, and the chaos churns itself into clarity. The same way, I suspect, that dating eventually lands you across from someone who just gets it.

I write because the world is more beautiful when you can untangle it, even just a little. When you can name the feelings we don’t say out loud or find meaning in the quiet moments—like the way something shifts in a relationship after an unspoken fight, or the way salty ocean air feels like a balm after a long, messy day. Writing lets me capture those moments, and maybe, hopefully, remind someone else that they’re not alone.

One Last Thought (Or What I’d Tell My 22-Year-Old Self)

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re a writer, too—or maybe you just want someone to validate the weird, wiggly messiness of your own journey. Either way, here’s the best advice I can offer, wrapped up in a single line: use your chaos. Writing doesn’t require you to have everything figured out. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about showing up and letting those imperfect bits slide into focus.

So, go ahead. Write, cook, sing, date, explore—whatever your thing is—because that’s how we untangle the knots and find meaning. Whether it’s on a blank page or in real life, remember: you’ve got your story. And it’s always worth telling.