The Return

I used to dream of being a writer.

Not in a grand, public way — but in a teenage, notebook-filled kind of way. I had journals bursting with poems, wandering thoughts, short stories, and one "novel" that never made it past page two. Still, it was real to me. That dream lived in the margins of math notebooks and in the corners of quiet afternoons. It was mine.

Later, that dream became more practical. I became a journalist. It was the closest path I could find to stay near the words — to shape them, share them, make them useful. I loved that path. But somewhere along the way, the creative part of me got quieter.

I did publish books — gift books, poetic ones. Commercial, yes. Lightweight in page count. But not in meaning. For a long time, I didn’t fully own them as writing. I saw them as products, not poems. Now I see them differently. They were mine. They were writing. They were me. I wish I had honored that more, back then.

Then life rushed in, as it does. Work. Motherhood. Responsibility. My own needs stepped back into the shadows. The dream sat quietly, still breathing, but silent.

Until now.

The twins grew up. The noise quieted. The grief softened. My world found a kind of stillness I didn’t expect — and in that silence, something inside me stirred again. That girl with the two-page novel? She spoke up.

She had waited long enough.

Now, I write with urgency and joy. I follow characters who insist on being born. I return to emotions I thought I had buried. And I find new ones I never expected.

Writing came back to me like breath after holding it for too long. It feels like coming home to myself — the version that always existed, but finally has room to speak.

This return hasn’t been loud. It’s been tender. Quiet. Steady.

But it’s real.
And I’m ready.

So if you’re reading this, welcome. I’m inviting you to walk this path with me — book by book, post by post, story by story. I’m sharing again. I’m building something.
Quietly.
But fully.