For me, writing is one of the most reliable sources of comfort. I don’t journal in the traditional sense—there’s no “dear diary” and no record of what I did the day before. Instead, I write about something that has caught my attention, or I respond to a prompt like this one. Some mornings, my mind feels blank, but I still write something. And often, I’m surprised by what surfaces in the process.
I write for clarity—to work out what I think and why. I write to process emotions that would otherwise stay tangled or unspoken. I write for fun too, as a form of creative play. Most of the time, I’m not writing for anyone else. If I think something might help others, I’ll share it. But generally, my writing is my sandbox, a place where I can experiment without pressure.
This rhythm—writing each morning after a simple breakfast—grounds me. It’s when I have the most energy and focus. I usually write for about an hour, then take the dog for a walk. That post-writing walk often feels lighter, as though something inside has settled. The crisp morning air, the movement, the passing conversations—it all adds to the sense of ease. It’s a simple ritual, but one that helps me start the day with clarity, calm, and a sense of quiet joy.
wake to the gently insistent pull of pen to page,
not to chart the day’s events,
but to catch whatever floats near the surface—
a phrase, a feeling,
a sliver of thought passing through the quiet morning,
the kind of thought that would vanish by noon
if not invited to stay,
the page holds the scattered,
the uncertain,
the unspeakable things that don’t fit in conversations,
lets me name them
without needing to explain them.
this is not for others.
not polished, not prepared—
a sandbox for my soul,
a quiet sorting room
where emotions stack themselves into meaning,
and meaning leads to action.
clarity rises like steam,
and by the time we’re out the door,
something has already shifted,
lightness in my limbs,
lightness in the air.
The Afterword 
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