Why do I write? I write to stay alive. I write to keep my soul burning. To fan the embers of fire in my soul into a flame that lights up my soul. I write to heal myself. To travel to the deepest corners of myself and exhume that which is buried. I found writing in the middle of chaos, and it was the quiet place I could retreat to. I write for myself.

I must remind myself that I write for myself first. Especially now that I am sharing my work publicly. When I pick up the pen to write now, I think about the reader. I cannot resist the thought and I acknowledge that I will probably feel this way for so long as I am putting my work out. I accept that this is how I feel, yet I choose a higher path. I choose to still write for myself even as I feel this pressure. I choose to go back to my roots moment by moment. To my base. To my original reason for creating. I do it for myself. I do it because I love it. I do it because it makes my life richer and more fulfilling. I want to create from that place.

I am cautious about being consumed by the idea of being a writer. Of the label of a writer. I am human first and always. I want my writing to enhance my humanity. For my creation to add more life to myself. Then to others. This pursuit should not be another mask. I am not setting out to create an image to show up to the world as. I am not curating and editing myself into a palatable cuisine. I am writing to reflect my humanity in its fullness.

I want to remain grounded through it all. Writing from the comfort of my private journal is safe. I do not think much into it. But time has come to expand to new horizons. For me to spread my wings and reach new heights. To outgrow the fish pond that is the safety of my journal and explore the vastness and depth of the ocean. As I do so, I must navigate the discomfort that comes with growth, yet remain rooted and grounded. Like a palm tree that sways with the wind. Dancing to the storm but remaining firmly in the ground.