This piece was originally written and published in 2022.
I found refuge in writing when I was about 10 years old. My mom had recently passed away, my dad was often working out of town, and my grandparents, whom I lived with, were doing the best they could while battling with their own grief.
So, I turned to writing. I penned poems to voice my emotions, crafted stories to make sense of the world, and wrote dialogues to seek solace. Writing became my sanctuary. It took away the loneliness of being a motherless daughter.
As I got older, writing evolved from a refuge to a form of self-expression. I was no longer content with being the sole audience; I aspired for the world to read my thoughts. In middle school, I explored themes of friendship and personal growth. High school saw me delving into love and dreams of the future. In my early twenties, I pondered leadership and the audacity to change the world. Somewhere in between, I ventured into journalistic writing for a magazine.
Though I didn’t consistently publish my personal work, the rare occasions I did drew a few souls who resonated deeply with my pieces. Writing became a skill I honed and cherished.
Moving to the United States in my mid-twenties brought immense challenges, particularly with writing in English. Learning a new language left little room for the familiar comfort of writing in French. Yet, more than ever did I need to express myself.
So, I attempted to write in English while grappling with this new world I struggled to navigate. These moments were my most vulnerable, yielding what I deemed the worst writings of my life. I declared myself a writer only in a French-speaking world, worlds away from here.
Serendipitously, an elective course in “Creative Writing” appeared in my Spring 2021 semester. I crafted poems and fiction pieces for my assignments, and on the last day of class, I received two magic words from my professor: “Keep writing!”
So, I did. I published a few blog posts in English that I later deleted, feeling they lacked depth and echoed a hurriedness that didn’t reflect my true self. I longed for the philosophical depths of my 10-year-old self. I moved on.
However, months later, reflecting on those long-forgotten posts, I recalled their engagement from family and friends. Though the writing itself felt inadequate, the pieces prompted laughter, empathy, agreement, disagreement, reflection, and enjoyment… And what more could a writer hope for from their work?
Now, here I am, 28 years old, embracing the writer within me once more. I realized that language is a tool I can learn and master over time, but it’s the stories I hold and the unique way I tell them that define me as a writer.
I am a writer. I’m unsure if I became one or unearthed this identity in the midst of a tragedy. Nevertheless, I yearn to keep creating, to explore this non-linear, often challenging, and unpredictable journey ahead, discovering where it might lead me next…
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