This Is How Writers Are Born “how we are born”

Have you ever asked yourself — was it you who chose writing, or was it writing that chose you?

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When I take myself back in time, to when I was just a kid, I remember writing a birthday letter to my best friend — a simple sentence, full of misspelled words, telling her how much I loved her.

I only remember a few memories of us, but some of those memories exist because of the letters I wrote.

Even when my mind forgot, my writing remembered.

My letters were witnesses — to that friendship, and to so many other things.

Later, when I was eight, everyone around me was discovering hobbies.

I thought mine was tennis.

I even wrote in my journal, “Oh, I think I found my hobby!”

But two days later, I stopped showing up.

And I remember the biggest loss of all — losing my dad when I was eleven.

I heard people whispering:

“Why isn’t she crying?”

“Is she okay?”

Then I went outside and played with my neighbors like nothing had happened.

But deep down, I was the kind of kid who couldn’t express her feelings — not even to the people closest to her.

So I opened my journal.

And I said goodbye.

To all the memories I’d kept in my journals.

To every trip we took as a family.

To the day you took me to see a real dolphin.

To the pink bicycle you got me on my birthday — the one I wrote about, saying how beautiful it was.

I said goodbye there.

And in doing so, I kept you alive.

Even when I didn’t have many photos or videos.

Even when your voice started to fade in my memory —

you still existed in my words.

Thanks to my journal.

The pain I thought I didn’t feel…

I kept it safe, hidden between the lines.

Then came my teenage years, and I wrote about how much I struggled with belonging.

I remember my first heartbreak — how painful it was.

I couldn’t even tell my friends because I knew they’d judge me for trusting him in the first place.

In my 20s, I remember getting paid for the first time.

I called my best friend to tell her how happy I was — but she was busy.

I don’t blame her.

She was dealing with her own life.

But writing?

Writing was the only constant.

I think I was lucky to be chosen by it.

My journals?

They’re dusty now — full of old versions of me.

Versions I was about to forget.

Reading them feels like stepping into a time machine.

Everything I felt in every phase…

still there.

Still alive.

I chose to write when they were here.

But writing chose me when everyone else left.

Now, I just find myself here — writing again.

And somehow, I feel that spark.

Because this time, I’m not just writing for myself and hiding it somewhere.

This time… I’m sharing it.

And somehow — I can feel it:

Something is healing inside me.

I don’t know how.

But I feel it.

That little girl inside me —

she’s just happy.

To forever writing…

even when no one sees.

⸻

My journals from the past two years.

Yes, I’m a writer. I always have been.

Someone who processes life —

the ups, the downs, the joy, the loss,

and all the in-between —

through words.

Always through writing.

Not just someone who sees things —

but someone gifted enough to see through them.

A piece of everything I’ve been through,

yet somehow, still whole.

And to every writer reading this —

you are gifted, too.

It’s not easy to put your feelings into words.

But write what you feel, whenever you feel it.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

It just has to be true.

And nothing gets better until you begin.

All you need… is to be real.

Don’t quit Substack just because you don’t feel seen yet.

keep writing for yourself.

the right readers will come when it’s time.

Thank you for reading.