Writing my way home

When I was 12 or 13, I received a journal as a gift from a friend. It was blue and green and I just knew it was something special. And now, so many years later, writing, journaling, pouring is still my way of processing my world. From writing about crushes and friendships to finding meaning and purpose and everything in between, writing has been my home for as long as I can remember.

When the world is too loud, I write to process. When it all just feels too much, I write to set it down. When my heart is broken and I don’t know where to go, I write to heal. I pour myself into words where somehow, things become lighter.

Some days, words come easy. Some days, they come so slowly, like honey, like molasses. Some days profound thoughts spill out. Most days the mundane is all I pour. It’s all beautiful. It’s all worthwhile. Because always, writing helps me return to myself. Ever since I got that blue and green journal.

Writing is how I breathe. It’s how I process. Pour. Ache. Heal. Dream. Plan. Think. It’s home to me. It’s mine. As long as I have a pen or a keyboard, I have something. I have my voice, I have my way back to myself.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe, it’s everything.

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I’m so excited to be here on Substack. I’m still finding my way around. I feel like a baby deer— wobbly, new. But excited. Hopeful. This space already feels like a breath of fresh mountain air. There is such poetry and soul and beauty here, my heart sings! What a beautiful journey ahead. Love, Nikki