Just Write...

If we can’t keep our word to ourselves in the quiet, we won’t keep it in the chaos.

Just Write.
That’s what I’m telling myself right now: just write. Don’t let the fear paralyze you. Don’t let the doubt creep in and take the wheel. You’re still in control; your mind doesn’t manage you; you manage your mind. Just write.
No editing. No perfect structure. No obsessing over the right word. Just... write.

It’s been a while. Longer than I’d like to admit. I wrote an article on July 2nd, but I wasn’t truly in it. It was surface level, unlike me in my writing. I dipped my toe in to say I did it—but did I really? The last time I truly wrote was 76 days ago. Ten weeks and six days since I wrote an article that had meaning, carried truth, and was articulated in a way that spoke that it had substance.

The more time I spent not writing, the more I had started to believe I’d lost my voice. I had made a commitment to write every week, not for anyone else, but for me. To nurture something that I loved … something that gave me life. And I didn’t follow through. It wasn’t the failure others might’ve seen that hurt me—it was the failure I saw in myself. I made a promise to myself, and then I broke that promise. I let life drown out something that has always grounded me.

It’s hard, you know? To love something with your whole heart but only get to live it halfway. Many people know that feeling. The more I wrote, the freer I felt. But freedom has a cost—it started to show me just how trapped I felt in other areas of my life. How misaligned I was with the spaces I was in. How unclear I was on the purpose of the work I did. How unfocused I was on what truly mattered to me.

Being prepared for the next season means mastering this one, and writing was the mirror that showed me I wasn’t quite there yet; I didn’t want to face that reality.

Writing made me more introspective, more present. I craved solitude. I started to see myself and the consequences of my choices with clarity. That clarity was both empowering and heavy.

I began to resent the dissonance—how deeply I could feel when I wrote, and how disconnected I felt when I wasn’t writing. There’s something terrifying about putting your soul into words. When you write honestly, it exposes you. And when that becomes the only place you can be free... it can be isolating too.

And then in the late spring... grief came.

I lost people I cared about, people who had impacted my life. Back-to-back. Quietly. I didn’t tell many. Some of my friends will only find out through this piece. Others knew because I whispered it once and never brought it up again. Grief built a wall in my mind. I couldn’t focus on writing because the thing I wanted to write about … was loss. But I didn’t want to feel it. I didn’t want to sit in that pain. Because acknowledging it would mean accepting that life was still going on while I felt stuck in sorrow. I thought I was fine.

But… you can’t rush into more if you’re crumbling in less.

Today, someone else is being laid to rest—someone my best friend cared for. I told her I found out too late to attend the service, which was true at the time. But I could have made the time. I could have rescheduled my commitments. I had a choice. When I woke up today I had plans to be around others but, I chose to be alone instead. I chose to write. To cry. To finally face what I had buried—because her grief and loss brought mine out in strong waves. I couldn’t hold my best friend’s heart because I hadn’t held my own.

My heart was wounded, and instead of tending to it, I focused on everything else. It’s like having a cut and constantly applying a salve when what it really needs is stitches. But before you can apply stitches, you need to disinfect it first—and that hurts. That’s painful. I never disinfected. I simply kept ignoring the infection until it spread and grew into a monster I couldn’t ignore.

Then today, in the silence of my home, when I cried—it was for me.
That felt selfish. That word selfish kept echoing in my mind. I’m alive. I still have breath in my lungs. What right do I have to cry for myself?

But I sat with it. Slowed my breathing. Reminded myself that my mind, like my body, is mine to command. Instead of shaming myself for crying for me, I asked myself: Why are you crying for yourself?

And when I asked, I cried more.
I cried for the closed doors over the past three months.
I cried for the times I said yes when I wanted to say no.
I cried for the ways I had abandoned myself.
I cried for the moments I tried to speak up and was drowned out by the emotions of others because theirs were displayed externally. My emotions were quieter—and as I carried the weight of what they felt and adjusted myself to them, my mind only got louder and noisier because I was neglecting my own voice. I was neglecting the signals my emotions were trying to give me.

A life shaped for others will always feel misshaped inside.

Outside of my writing, I don’t wear my pain on my sleeve anymore. I’ve become skilled at masking it, at least to those not in my inner circle.
I smile when I want to sob.
I talk when all I crave is silence.
I lift others up when my own spirit feels heavy.
I speak positivity while feeling completely defeated.

Life has made me guarded. I’m still curious, still hopeful, still light in spirit—but I keep the fact that I care deeply at a distance. Many people feel that they know me, but people only know what we allow them to see.

Still, even in that whirlwind, God apparently thought I could handle more; haha!

He continued to gently humble me. The lesson I’ve gotten the past 3 months is that I’m not as ready as I thought I was, I’m not as prepared for the next season as I had convinced myself.

Readiness without rootedness is just restlessness.

I had been convincing myself I was grounded when really, I was just tired. The Creator showed me that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Even if I’m not a fan of it, it’s my job to create the joy that I seek. I felt so ready for the next phase of life, so ready for tomorrow. At least, I thought I was. But maybe I’m not?

Wanting the future doesn’t mean you're ready for it. And if I can’t hold my commitments to myself in this quiet, hidden season, how can I be trusted with more?

What happens to our consistency when God tells us no?
What happens to our commitment when He closes doors?
What happens to our discipline when we're met with loss, temptation, or grief? Discipline isn’t proven in momentum—it’s proven in those season of stillness.

This is what I’ve been wrestling with. If we can’t keep our word to ourselves in the quiet, we won’t keep it in the chaos. And maybe that’s the whole point of this season.

And the truth is—living a life where we say yes when we mean no... it dishonors our souls.
Living a life where we carry others’ emotions but bury our own... it erodes our sense of self.
Living a life shaped to please others, while silencing our own voice... it’s not authentic… it’s not sustainable.

So, no—I didn’t cry for myself because I’m selfish.
I cried because I’m still here, and those I cared for are not.
I cried because I’ve hidden my voice, my truth, my pain—and that’s not how I want to honor the people I’ve lost.

Today, I recommit. Not to some grand six-month plan (I’m known for those). I commit, just to today.
Today, I will write.
Today, I will say no.
Today, I will care for myself so I can better care for others.
Today, I will focus.
Today, I will commit.
Today, I will do less so that tomorrow, I can do more.
Today, I will pause so that tomorrow, I can move with purpose.
Today, I will reflect so that tomorrow, I can act with clarity.
And when I lose my way again, and I will (ugh), I’ll remind myself... just write.

If you’re still reading this, I’m honored that you’re along this journey with me.

Moments with God Series