It started with a diary, one of those velvet-covered things with a little latch you could lock with a key so flimsy it could be picked with a bobby pin. I was seven years old, and my biggest secret at the time was that I thought my older brother's friend, Marcus, was the cutest boy alive. But I wasn’t writing to preserve the memory for the ages. I was writing because it made me feel like I held some kind of magic wand (the pen) where I could create a world that was entirely mine. And from then on, I was hooked, like Carrie Bradshaw to Manolos—except with way fewer boroughs and slightly more cowhide boots.

Writing has been my constant companion, even when life got messy, complicated, or downright heartbreaking, like that time I got rejected from a high school literary magazine. (Side note: Whoever decided that submitting moody sonnets about unrequited crushes wasn’t top-tier publishing material was, frankly, wrong.) My love for storytelling is woven into the fabric of who I am, as vital to me as coffee in the morning or a Sade album on a rainy day. Writing isn’t just something I do; it’s how I process, connect, and make sense of this beautifully chaotic world we all inhabit.

A Love Letter to Chaos

Here’s the thing about writing: it thrives in the chaos. I’m not talking about the kind of chaos where deadlines loom larger than Beyoncé at the Grammys or when your Netflix account gets hacked. I’m talking about the chaos of simply being human—when you’re mid-argument with someone you care about and realize mid-yell that they’re actually right, or when you’re on your third “everything happens for a reason” pep talk post-breakup but don’t even believe your own advice.

Our lives, much like our dating lives, are rarely linear. They’re messy, full of false starts, ghosting (from people and feelings), unexpected sparks of joy, and the occasional streak of drama fit for a Shonda Rhimes series. Writing is how I metabolize all of it. It’s where I take unreplied texts, awkward first dates, and the mystery of why men still think it’s cute to say “I’m not like other guys” and spin them into something—well, at least semi-useful.

Some people run marathons to reset, others cry in their cars to Adele. Me? I write it out. It’s cheaper than therapy, healthier than drowning myself in mojitos (though I’m not above a good mojito every now and then), and it gives me the rare pleasure of turning even the worst days into stories worth telling.

The Stories I Found Between The Lines

I never thought writing could take me as far as it has. Growing up in Dallas in the type of house where “success” meant med school or a corner office by 30, saying I wanted to be a writer felt almost… rebellious. My parents nodded politely when I declared Journalism as my major at Howard, but I’m pretty sure they started whispering prayers for me immediately after.

When I worked as a political speechwriter, crafting lines to rally crowds or diplomatically dodge tricky questions, writing taught me the importance of empathy. You can’t argue someone into changing their mind; you have to meet them where they are. Similarly, when I started writing contemporary women’s fiction, I realized how many people walk through life aching to see themselves in someone else’s story. Whether it’s a plot twist in a novel or a line in a blog post, the stories we consume remind us that we’re not as alone as we think. Isn't that the whole point of connection—making someone feel seen, heard, and valued?

I see that same yearning echoed in relationships. The first time someone confessed they loved me (spoiler: the someone is now an ex), it felt like a chapter straight out of one of my books. I remember thinking, “Whoa—this is a scene I might have written, but with fewer swooning violins and a slightly smellier apartment.” That’s the greatest power in storytelling: it mirrors the very best and sometimes the very worst of us, reminding us to lean in closer, hold on longer, or even walk away when staying no longer makes sense.

Lessons from the Blank Page

People often ask me if I ever get stuck—if the words ever just… vanish. Spoiler alert: they do. Writer’s block is real, and it’s every bit as frustrating as trying to figure out whether someone’s “lol” in a text is too casual or actually dismissive. But writer’s block has also taught me discipline and the patient art of sitting in discomfort until the clarity comes. Believe me, it applies to way more than just creative work.

Here are a few things writing has taught me that are worth passing along:

  • First drafts are rarely pretty—but they’re necessary. This applies whether you’re starting a story, exploring a new avenue in your career, or learning the difference between true compatibility and confusing chemistry for fireworks. The first step? Get it out of your head and onto the page (or into reality).

  • Every edit makes you stronger. Writing isn’t about getting it perfect the first time; it’s about revisiting, reworking, and refining. Growth—whether as a writer, partner, or person—depends on revisiting what doesn’t work and choosing better.

  • Share your story, but protect your narrative. Vulnerability is powerful, but not everyone gets to dictate or define who you are. Writing your truth, for yourself, is just as important as explaining it to others.

Why I Still Show Up

If writing were just about telling stories, I might have quit years ago. But the truth is, I write because it’s how I show up for myself and others. I write to remind someone (and sometimes myself) that heartbreak doesn’t last forever, that growth is messier than those Instagram self-help accounts make it seem, and that the journey of truly knowing yourself is never-ending.

I write for those love-struck teenagers pouring their hearts into diaries that may never be understood by anyone but themselves. I write for people stuck in the in-between spaces of their lives—between joy and loss, certainty and risk, purpose and desire. Most of all, I write because it’s a testament to staying present in a world that tries so desperately to pull us forward, backward, or anywhere but here.

And if some of what I write sparks a laugh, a moment of reflection, or even the tiniest bit of hope? That’s just the Sade-smooth cherry on top.