Someone asked me the other day what writing means to me — and why I keep giving time to something that makes no real contribution to my busy, ‘productive’ life.

I didn’t have a perfect answer then. But I’ve been thinking about it.

For the last four months, I wrote like I was late to my own story. Every thought that had been sitting quietly in the corners of my mind for years finally started shouting — and I let it.

I wrote about my dad, about love that made no sense, about grief, about airports, offices, kindness, and confusion. It felt like an emotional roller coaster or maybe like spring cleaning, but just noisier.

Now, there’s silence.

Not the deep, wise kind people talk about but more like — when you’ve cried so much, you start laughing at yourself in the mirror.

My heart feels light. My blog, full. My drafts folder, empty.

For a while, I wondered if something was missing. But then I realized — maybe this is what meditation feels like. You sit, you exhale all the noise, and suddenly there’s just… space.

That’s the thing about pouring yourself out — you have to stop and let life pour back in.

So I’m doing that now. Watching the world again. Listening to my thoughts form slowly, like tea steeping, like weather changing.

And honestly, now I think everyone needs something like this — some way to vent or live that doesn’t rely on people or money to fix it for you. For me, it’s words. For someone else, it might be painting, or baking, or running, or just reorganising their closets.

So I’m doing that now. Just living a bit. Collecting new things to care about. And I believe that the words will find me again when they’re ready. ☺️

Post-credit: Maybe my next story will be about my trip to Vietnam, where I accidentally lived an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ montage without trying.

Or maybe it’ll be about someone really funny I met recently — and how good it felt to just be silly and enjoy the dessert.

Maybe that’s what research looks like when you’re led by instinct instead of the logic.😊