Why Do I Wait So Long to Write?
This January, I’m asking myself the question I’ve dodged for years: why do I wait so long to write? Writing has always been a solace, a mirror, and a friend. Yet, I let months, sometimes years, go by without putting pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard.
Maybe it’s fear—fear that my words won’t do justice to my emotions. Maybe it’s the chaos of life—the way it sweeps me up, leaving little room for pause. Or maybe, just maybe, I needed to live a little more before I could write.
This holiday season, I had my first Christmas in four years with all my children home. Four years of "I miss yous," and promises to “get together next year.” Four years of learning that life, though beautiful, isn’t always easy to align.
And this year, the stars aligned.
The house was alive with laughter—albeit all making fun of me for trying to capture the moments with my youngest saying "Look at mom, soaking it all in.." nonetheless, a kitchen full of all my children under one roof. Each moment felt like a piece of a puzzle finally snapping into place.
While watching another movie, I caught myself pausing. Just looking. Their faces, so familiar yet changed with time. The subtle creases of age and growth, the way their voices carried stories of their own lives now. My heart swelled with gratitude, and for a moment, I felt the kind of peace that makes you realize just how much you’ve missed something.
And that’s why I write. To remember. To capture these fleeting moments and tuck them into the corners of my soul, where they’ll remain long after the sounds of laughter fade. Writing is my way of holding on, of preserving the joy, the love, and even the ache of missing them. I write because someday, when they’re not here, these words will be.
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