When I was 10, my mom handed me a spiral notebook and said, “Write down everything you notice on our walk to school tomorrow.” The next morning, armed with a pencil and my very serious sense of observation, I noted things like “neighbors watering roses” and “bird sounds like it’s laughing (rude).” What started as an earnest attempt to practice storytelling became my first real obsession with noticing the world around me—and wanting to capture it forever. It might’ve just looked like doodles and scribbles back then, but it was the start of me discovering what writing really felt like: holding magic with both hands.

Fast-forward a few decades, and people still ask me why I write. It’s an understandable question. Writing isn’t exactly where the glitz is—it’s messy drafts, unanswered emails, and way too many snacks at 2 a.m. But for me, writing isn’t just something I do. It’s part of how I live. I write because stories—and the act of documenting them—shape how I see the world. And honestly? Writing helps me survive it, too.

Section 1: Life Is Weird. Writing Helps Make It Less Weird.

We’ve all had that moment—you meet someone new, and it’s either instant sparks or undeniable awkwardness (maybe they’re talking about cryptocurrency again, maybe you’re somehow both sweating through your shirts). Either way, the only tools you have in that moment are your own experiences and stories. For me, writing is where I try to figure these stories out before I send them into the world. It’s like a rehearsal dinner for my thoughts—awkward toast included.

I think a lot of us grow up believing we only get a fixed set of feelings to draw from: love, sadness, anger, happiness. But in writing, there’s space for so much more. I can examine the funky middle ground between nostalgia and regret when I think about an old fling, or put words to the kind of joy I feel when I discover a band that no one listens to (but everyone should). Writing is how I process life’s gray areas, those unspoken feelings that don’t come pre-named or pre-packaged. And honestly? Life is 90% gray area.

Section 2: This Isn’t Therapy, But It’s Not Not Therapy

Speaking of feelings, my high school English teacher once said, “Writing is cheaper than therapy, but it might be even slower.” She wasn’t wrong. I’ve spent years trying and failing to articulate heartbreak, typing sentences like, “I can’t believe he’s dating someone with Crocs” before realizing Crocs weren’t the real problem. (They usually weren’t the whole problem, anyway.) When something rattles around in my head too long—like an awkward first date, a misunderstanding with someone I love, or even just a big, bittersweet goodbye—I write it out. And rewriting it later? That’s where the clarity comes.

When I’m stuck in the mess of a complicated feeling, it’s easy to think of myself as a bystander to my own life, like someone else pulled the chaotic strings. But writing helps remind me I’m not a spectator; I’m the author. I can edit, delete, or even rewrite whole parts of my narrative. Sure, I can’t undo the bad dates (or the even worse bangs I got after one of them), but writing gives me a way to make peace with the chapters that aren’t always polished.

Section 3: Stories Connect Us (Even If Some Are Terribly Awkward)

My dad, a civil rights attorney, taught me that words can build bridges or walls—how you use them depends on what you’re trying to build. Our dinner table conversations were like TED Talks for teenagers, complete with bonus debates about things like Liz Phair lyrics and whether guacamole could, in fact, be the key to world peace. (Spoiler: It’s not. But it’ll inspire a great argument.) What I didn’t realize back then was that sharing stories—whether they’re serious or silly—is often the foundation of how we connect with each other.

Writing helps me do that. Whether I’m sharing an essay about my inability to keep plants alive or reflecting on how my favorite teacher shaped my ideas on feminism, the act of writing feels like reaching out a hand. If someone else reads my words and nods along, laughing or crying or saying, “Yes, this is so how it feels,” then I know my words have done their job.

Let me put it this way: writing is the literary version of saying, “Me too!” to a stranger’s awkward party story. It’s comforting and a little wild to know that someone halfway around the world could relate to the moment I tripped over my own heels on a first date—or wrestled with whether or not my dog counts as my soulmate. (Spoiler: he does. His name is Guster, and he’s majestic.)

Section 4: Writing Doesn’t Need to Be Perfect (Thank God)

Here’s the thing about writing—and life, honestly: both are incredibly messy. I’ve written countless sentences I cringe to read later, stories I wish had landed differently, and ideas that were halfway decent but not fully alive. The perfectionist in me used to freak out about this. (“What do you mean it’s okay for some metaphors to feel like they were cooked in a microwave?”) But over time, I’ve learned to trust the process.

Writing doesn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful. And neither do our stories. Sometimes, awkward phrasing captures a moment better than anything polished—like the time I wrote about meeting someone who smelled like sunscreen and bad decisions. (That description? Spot-on. The date? Less so.)

Whether we’re talking about writing or life, I think the magic happens when you stop obsessing over whether something looks flawless and instead ask, “What’s here that’s real?” For me, writing is almost never about the perfect plot twist or lyrical prose; it’s about the courage to show up, pen in hand, and try to make sense of this beautiful mess we all live in.

Conclusion: Keep Writing the Chapters That Matter

At its core, writing is a love letter—sometimes to others, but often to yourself. It’s how you honor what you’ve been through, celebrate what you’ve learned, and create space for what’s coming next. Whether I’m documenting the batty rhythm of a first date or teasing out patterns in my relationships, writing helps me find clarity.

So why do I keep writing? I write because stories make us human. I write because moments—as fleeting and ridiculous as they sometimes are—deserve to be remembered. I write because the world can sometimes feel like chaos, but words remind me I’m never navigating it alone.

And most of all, I write because it feels like calling myself back home—no matter where I am, no matter what chapter I’m in.