In Love with Writing

I am falling back in love with writing.

Despite earning degrees in English and journalism, I found myself wordless in the quiet unraveling of motherhood. Art became my refuge, a resting place for emotions too raw for words.

But as I shift into this season of ponderance and presence, I feel a greater pull toward language—toward the catharsis that only words can offer.

Now, I return to them the only way I know how—through surrender.

I carry deep shadows, cast by artificial light—sunlight was swallowed by my childhood.

The constant dull hum of the fridge, an airplane flying low. Three loud sneezes—reminders that I am not alone.

Lilac and yellow pompons punctuate my beige existence, longing for aliveness beyond their glass prison. The dark veins in the marble countertop, livid beneath my fingertips.

The cast iron wok, seasoned, well-loved, a generational keepsake, sits on the stovetop exhausted.

My gaze lands on the empty water jug, its birch lid in place, its luminescent gold handle a quiet contrast to its understated form—a reflection of who I used to be.

Here, in this space, I find myself again—through words, through presence, through community.