Dear diary: I’m writing… again

There was a time

when words would just come to me.

No effort. No push.

They flowed like honey.. slow, sweet, certain.

Like my soul was speaking before I even opened my mouth.

I didn’t write poetry.

I wrote what hurt.

What healed.

What held me together when I was falling apart.

Back then,

I was a walking journal

everything I felt had a place to land.

My breath had rhythm.

My thoughts had form.

My pain had somewhere to go.

But lately?

It’s been quiet.

Almost a month now with no words.

A month full of feeling,

but nothing finding its way to paper.

Like I’ve been carrying whole paragraphs in my womb

memories, emotions, old wounds

all waiting for me to sit still long enough

to let them out.

And no, it’s not that I didn’t want to write.

It’s just…

I’ve been too busy.

Busy being strong.

Busy surviving.

Busy adding more weight

to the list of things I promise to release later.

Somewhere along the way,

I let my faith get quiet.

Not gone…. just soft.

Like a candle burning low,

but still burning.

And now,

here I am.

In this gentle season of my life.

This soft space I fought hard for.

Trying to remember how to start again.

So this is my first step.

One letter at a time.

Letting it all spill

the old hurt,

the quiet fear,

the deep knowing

that I was made for more than just making it.

I was made to bloom.

To be soft and safe in my own skin.

To be written by God’s own hand.

To be seen

even if only by me and Him.

So I’ll write.

Slowly.

Truthfully.

Tenderly.

Because even when I have no words

I am still a story.

Still becoming.

Still healing.

Love,

Me