I was a young girl who breathed words, a dreamer who spun stories like threads of dusk, fragile yet fierce, catching every fleeting thought in their glow. Words were my refuge—scratched into notebooks, whispered in quiet corners, alive in the hum of a sentence that sang. I’d lose myself in the rhythm of a phrase, the way it could pulse with quiet power, like a heartbeat etched on paper. But life, with its heavy tread, dimmed that light. Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing. The pages stayed blank, the stories silent, the whispers of my younger self tucked away.
As a girl, words were my world. I’d read until my eyes ached, letting stories paint my days in hues I couldn’t name. I wrote poems that chased the wind, stories that wandered through imagined realms, reflections that danced with the stars. Writing wasn’t just joy; it was breath, a way to hold the vastness of feeling. I was young, fearless, believing every word I penned had weight. Each sentence was a step, each story a leap into a world where I was boundless. But as years passed, life grew heavier. Doubts crept in, loud and sharp. Were my words enough? Did they matter in a world that felt too vast? The ease of writing faded, replaced by a silence that grew familiar. I told myself I’d write again when the time was right, but time slipped, and the notebooks stayed closed.
And then, I found HerCampus, like the light at the end of a long tunnel. HerCampus became my haven.
I’d been carrying the weight of stopped stories for so long, believing the girl who wrote with abandon was gone. But she wasn’t. She was there, waiting in the margins, in the half-forgotten lines I’d once loved. The first step back was small—a sentence jotted in a moment of courage. “I lost the girl who wrote without fear,” I wrote, and the words felt like a door creaking open. They were raw, unpolished, but alive. That aliveness was a spark, a reminder that words could still carry me.
Writing again was like rediscovering a language I’d forgotten. At first, the words came haltingly, each one a struggle against doubt. I’d sit with a blank page, feeling the old fears rise—What if it’s not good? What if it’s not enough? But I wrote anyway. A line, a paragraph, a poem that stumbled but stood. Each word was a rebellion against silence, a reclaiming of the girl who’d once believed in her own voice. I found myself returning to the things I loved as a child—poems that felt like breath, stories that unfolded like dreams. They weren’t perfect, but they were mine, and that was enough.
The more I wrote, the stronger the whispers grew. I began to see the girl I’d been, not as lost, but as part of me still, her love for words woven into who I was becoming. I filled pages again, not with the pressure to be profound, but with the need to feel the hum of a sentence, the spark of a story. I shared my work, tentative at first, letting others read the poems and reflections I’d kept hidden. Their responses—kind, thoughtful—reminded me that words could connect, could ripple beyond the page. I started a blog, pouring out thoughts on doubt, resilience, and the act of beginning again. Readers, strangers and friends, wrote back, their words a mirror to my own.
Now, I write every day. Some days, it’s a fragment; others, a flood. I’m not chasing perfection but the pulse of a line that feels true, a story that breathes. Writing has become a way to honor the girl I was and the woman I am, a bridge between then and now. It’s not about being “enough” but about being honest, about letting the whispers grow into songs. Doubt still lingers, but it no longer rules me. Each word I write is a step, each page a piece of a mosaic that’s still taking shape.
To anyone whose words have gone quiet, whose doubts have stilled their voice, know this: your stories are still there, tucked in the corners of your heart. They don’t need to be grand; they need to be yours. Find a moment, a place, a single line to start. Write unevenly, write bravely, write you. The world doesn’t need your perfection; it needs your truth. The girl I was, the one who loved words, taught me that. She’s still here, whispering, and I’m listening. The mosaic takes time, but every word is a piece reclaimed, a whisper woven anew.