I am a writer. It took me a really long time to say those words, to own those words. Even
now, as I stare at my book for sale on Amazon, they sound foreign coming from my lips.
But I am a writer.
I have had a lot of titles in my life, a lot of identities that I have had no problem stepping
into and embracing fully. But this, for some reason, I struggled to believe I had earned.
I have always loved words and knew that I was gifted at fitting them together, like pieces
of a puzzle, to create beautiful pictures that people enjoyed and could see themselves
inside. Yet it was still hard to think of myself as a real writer. I felt that to be a writer, you
had to do something great. You had to write something that the world accepted as
incredibly powerful, that shook people to their core when they read it. The reality is, to
be a writer, all you have to do is write… to put your soul on the page and to open your
heart and let the words that live there flow out. It’s not even a choice really. The words
just find their way onto the page, sometimes even when you don’t want them to or even
know they needed to come out. But they always come, beautiful, messy, perfectly
imperfect. And when they do, there is a moment of release where your soul exhales
and you feel like you have never been more you than you are in that moment. You have
done what you were supposed to do. Maybe you will be the only one who ever reads it.
Or maybe it will change the world. Either way, you have done what you were made to
do. Because, just like me, you are a writer.