Writing is a lot like dating, isn’t it? You put yourself out there, you try to make a connection, and sometimes, despite your best efforts, you’re met with silence. Other times, there’s magic—an unspoken click, a spark, a moment where someone (a reader, a lover, a stranger) just gets you. This is why I write. For connection. For the spark. For the possibility of someone whispering, “Me too,” even if I’ll never hear it.

But how did I get here? How did I become the kind of person who turns her thoughts into words, her messiness into meaning? Let me explain—because much like a first date, I think this is worth sharing.

The First Love Letter I Never Sent

I was seven years old the first time I wrote something that mattered—or at least, mattered to me. His name was Kenji, he sat two rows over in my second-grade classroom, and I just knew we were meant to be. He had the perfect black-rimmed glasses, the kind that made him look like he understood math and Ninja Turtles equally well. (For a second-grader, this was the height of sophistication.)

So I did what any self-respecting, self-conscious seven-year-old would… I wrote him a haiku.

Your eraser falls.
I wish to pick it up too,
But I turn away.

To this day, Kenji does not know about that haiku because I chickened out and tore it to shreds during lunch. But you know what? Writing that poem felt like bottling lightning—brief, shaky, but electric all the same. That feeling stuck with me.

Words as Lifelines (Or How Writing Saved Me From Awkward Adolescence)

Fast forward a few years, and I was the teenager scribbling bad poetry in spiral notebooks, mostly about unrequited crushes or “existential despair” (read: being grounded for breaking curfew). Other kids were organizing their schedules around karaoke nights and trips into Tokyo, while I spent my weekends at the library, surrounded by the comforting stillness of books, pretending to study but really reading Yasunari Kawabata novels and wishing for a life as achingly beautiful and tragic as the ones on those pages.

Okay, maybe that sounded a little dramatic, but isn’t that what adolescence is all about? Big emotions, small outlets. Writing became the way I made sense of things—things I was feeling but couldn’t yet say. It’s how I confessed to crushes (in my head) and how I argued with my mother (very boldly…on paper). I didn’t know it at the time, but writing wasn’t just my outlet; it was my compass. My way of charting an identity, one stolen moment in the library at a time.

Why I Keep Putting Pen to Paper (Even When It’s Hard)

If love is a muscle, then writing is the workout. And just like leg day at the gym, it’s not always fun. There are days I sit down to write and feel like a fraud—empty, disconnected. But I keep going. Why? Because writing reminds me that even in my clumsiest, most vulnerable moments, there’s worth in showing up.

Writing, much like a great romance, is messy. It forces you to face rejection. It asks you to show up and be honest, even when it would be so much easier to hold back or play it cool. Some days, I’m writing just for me—untangling thoughts, airing grievances with no intention of sharing them beyond my journal. Other times, I’m writing for you. For us. For strangers I’ll never meet but who might stumble upon my words on a rainy Sunday, coffee in hand, looking for some comfort or clarity. Knowing that possibility exists? That’s everything.

What Writing Has Taught Me About Love (and Myself)

I’ve gone on a lot of dates in my thirty-something years. Some were unforgettable—like the one in Paris where I ended up dancing on a bridge to the sound of a busker’s cello. Others? Forgettable in a very memorable way (pro tip: don’t mention your ex on date one or date five). But through it all, writing—and storytelling—has taught me more about love than any date ever could.

Here are some things I’ve learned that might resonate with you too:

  • Vulnerability is strength: Putting yourself out there, whether in love or in words, feels terrifying because it is terrifying. But it’s also where the magic happens.
  • Clarity comes with effort: Just like great relationships, good writing requires editing—sometimes ruthless editing. You might have to delete what doesn’t work to make space for what does.
  • The small moments matter most: Whether it’s in a story or real life, it’s rarely the grand gestures that stick with us. It’s the tiny details—a phrase, a look, the way someone lingers at the end of a hug.

Above all, writing has taught me that love—like creativity—is infinite. The more you give, the more you get. The more honestly you express yourself, the more likely it is others will see themselves in you too.

The Little Ways We Stay Connected

I often think about my mother’s flower shop, the way she’d so carefully craft bouquets for strangers, taking their emotions (grief, love, joy) and turning them into something whole and beautiful. I didn’t realize it back then, but that’s exactly what writing is for me: a way of arranging the disorder of life into something meaningful. Something worth sharing.

Whether I’m writing about the ache of a breakup, the thrill of possibility, or the quiet beauty of an ordinary Tuesday, it all comes down to connection. To arranging words like flowers, hoping they’ll land in the hands of someone who needs them.

Write Your Own Story (Even If No One’s Reading—Yet)

Maybe you’re reading this because you love writing too, or maybe you’re just here because, like Kenji, you dropped your metaphorical eraser and stumbled into this essay. Whatever the case, let me say this: everyone has a story worth telling. If you’ve been doubting whether to write it, stop. The world needs your words, however messy, half-formed, or foolish they might seem. Trust me. Someone, somewhere, needs your voice—even if that “someone” is just you.

So write. For yourself, for someone you may never meet, for the joy of seeing your words take shape. Write for the love of it. Write because in a fleeting world where most things fade fast, words have a way of sticking—like a first love, or the memory of a boy with perfect glasses and a too-small eraser.