I haven’t written in a while
I want to blame work.
That would be easy. The early mornings, the late nights, the three roles in one and one too many things happening all at once until the days no longer felt like mine. Work has been heavy, leaving me tired before the day begins and hollow by the time it ends.
So yes, I could blame work.
I could point to the long days and say that is why I have not written in a while. I could say I have been busy, overextended, stretched thin, and none of that would be a lie. But it would’t be the truth either. Because if there is one thing I know about myself, it’s that even in my busiest seasons, I still want to write.
Writing has never been something I do only when I have time. It is the place I go when I need to make sense of things. It’s more than an expression for me. It’s my refuge and release. The desire to write never left. If anything, it became louder. I could feel it at the edge of my days, demanding to be acknowledged. But I held back because my escape had suddenly become a mirror.
And I did not want to look.
March was a hard month. Simple things felt heavier than they should. But I knew I had to keep moving because life kept moving, and there was no convenient space to fall apart. Pretty soon, the heaviness started shaping how I moved through the world.
I tried to manage it by reaching for the things I know usually helped, like affirmations, perspective and self-talk. I hoped that would keep my mind disciplined and my heart in check. I wanted to be stronger than what I was feeling. But I couldn’t out think it, or out pray it.
At some point, I had to accept that there was no clean way around it. I had to feel the feels. The sadness. The anger. The disappointment. The frustrations. The loneliness. I was tired of bottling it down.
And strangely enough, the shift came when I stopped fighting every thought and every feeling. I let myself admit that I was hurting, that some things needed to be felt even if I couldn’t make sense of them yet. And that is how I found my way back here.
Back on the page. More exposed than I would have chosen. My vulnerability showing through the cracks I worked so hard to seal. But as I lie here, drifting with the current instead of fighting it, I find that I can finally breathe.
The sky looks bluer. My chest feels lighter. Nothing is perfectly resolved, and I am not interested in pretending otherwise. I am still in it. Still feeling through it. Still making peace with things I wish had gone differently. But something has shifted.
The wave did not take me out.
I am still here.
I guess I did not die.
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