How I began my writing journey
Each time somebody asks me about my writing history, I’m stumped (just a little) and I chuckle before I recount my story of how I began my writing journey. It’s been one month short of two years. I still find myself in a state of disbelief, though it gets easier with each recount.
Was it a touch of magic? Perhaps.
My heart was touched by the right words from the right person. It softened and a portal was unlocked. (Some might say the universe had its plans.) That night, the dam broke, freeing tears held over decades. I was in an apartment in a foreign land all by myself. My husband (fiance back then) was a call (or eight hours) away but something in me knew—I had to undergo this ordeal alone. No one could walk the path for me nor cry on my behalf. I had to be the one to revisit the terrors in my life that were constantly haunting me.
There I was, on a couch in an unfamiliar room, pouring my heart out onto tissues and my notebook. Words flowed, fusing with salty sorrow. For the following two days, I cried and wrote, cried and ate, cried and typed, while walking the pier in downtown San Francisco. My virgin trip to San Francisco, a view of cerulean skies and beautiful sights through swollen, wet eyes.
My very first poem was conceived. (Strip)
As I stripped away layers of armor and insecurity and duty, I felt my heart beat again. I was in touch with my pulse, again.
Since then, I have been writing regularly. A powerful healing practice, it has been an outlet for me to process my experiences. I wrote my past, my pain, my shame. I wrote to think, to feel, to release. Exaltations, elegies, declarations, and dreams, I inked every bit.
From catharsis to craft, this mode of expression helped me regain my voice. Now, I write to create space and spaces for repose, healing, and transformation.