To Write and Heal, Always.

There are days when I feel like I am drowning in a silence too loud to bear. Days when the world moves too fast, when my thoughts tangle into knots too tight to unravel, when I cannot seem to form the words to explain what is happening inside me. But then, there is writing. Always writing.

It has saved me more times than I can count. It has been my refuge when nothing else made sense, my sanctuary when the world felt too sharp, too loud, too unbearable. Writing has never asked me to be anything other than what I am. It does not judge, does not interrupt, does not twist my words into something I do not recognize. It listens when no one else does.

I have written through heartbreak, through loss, through the kind of pain that makes breathing feel like a task. I have spilled my grief onto paper, let my sorrow bleed through ink, turned my loneliness into sentences that sit heavy on a page but lighter in my chest. And somehow, in the process, I have found pieces of myself that I thought were lost forever. Writing has stitched me back together when life tried to tear me apart.

But it is not just the pain that writing carries. It holds my joy, my dreams, my quiet moments of peace. It captures the way sunlight spills through my window on slow mornings, the way laughter feels in my chest, the softness of love in all its forms. It reminds me that I am here, that I am alive, that my story is still unfolding.

Writing is the one thing that has never left me. People have walked away, time has stolen moments I can never get back, but writing has remained. A constant. A home. A love that asks for nothing but honesty. And so, I write—not just to express, but to survive. To understand myself in ways I never could if I kept the words trapped inside.

There is something sacred about pouring my soul onto a page. It is a release, a letting go of burdens I cannot carry alone. Sometimes, the words come easily, like a flood breaking free after being held back for too long. Other times, they trickle slowly, hesitant and uncertain, as if afraid to be seen. But they always come. Because I have learned that even in silence, writing waits for me. It is patient. It does not abandon.

I write to remember. To hold onto the parts of me that time and pain have threatened to erase. There are entries in my journals filled with the voices of past versions of myself—naïve, hopeful, broken, resilient. Some pages carry the dreams I had before the world tried to convince me they were impossible. Others hold the wounds I thought would never heal. And as I read them, I realize that writing has been my witness all along. It has seen me through every season, every storm, every rebirth.

I write to give my pain a voice, to make sense of the chaos inside me. When I feel like I am unraveling, I turn to my words, and somehow, they weave me back together. Writing does not demand explanations. It does not ask me to hide my scars or soften my truths. It allows me to be raw, to be unfiltered, to exist without pretense. In a world that often demands I shrink myself to fit, writing gives me the space to be vast, to take up room, to be whole.

And yet, writing is not just about healing. It is about creation. It is about bringing something into existence that did not exist before. It is about capturing fleeting moments, bottling up emotions, preserving the essence of what it means to be human. It is about connection—the silent understanding that somewhere, someone might read my words and see themselves in them. That even in our loneliest moments, we are never truly alone.

There have been nights when I have sat in the dim glow of my room light, pen in hand, heart aching, and writing has held me. It has whispered back to me in the quiet, reminding me that I am more than my struggles, more than my doubts, more than the voices that try to tell me I am not enough. It has been both my escape and my homecoming, my way of leaving and my way of staying.

I do not know who I would be without writing. I do not know how I would have survived the darkest days if not for the words that poured from my soul like lifelines. It is my truest form of expression, my safest place. There is something about putting thoughts into words that makes them real, tangible, understood—even if only by myself.

I write because I have to. Because my mind is a storm that only calms when I spill my thoughts onto paper. Because there are feelings too heavy to carry in silence. Because there are stories inside me that refuse to stay hidden. I write to heal. To breathe. To exist fully. And I will write, always.

Neta