Why I Write
This girl. This beautiful, creative, quirky, sweet, innocent, pure, and loving girl.
She was a bibliophile from the day that she was born. Her deep understanding of the power in storytelling ran through her blood.
She lost herself in the pages of her books, and throughout her life she found herself in them too.
She made up her own stories from their pictures before she could read the words.
They made her eyes light up and she stood a little taller when she talked about them, especially during her quietest moments in the classroom.
Their words formed a protective shield around her when she was being bullied in school.
They taught her how to be brave and courageous. When she was knocked down with hate, she got up again and loved back even harder.
They encouraged her to write her own stories.
They comforted her when she was anxious, caught her tears when she was sad, and made her smile because they always seemed like they were written just for her.
They were her rock in seasons when she felt like the ground was crumbling beneath her.
They taught her how to be comfortable with being alone with herself.
They were the center of many family traditions, and she bonded with family members/friends over the adventures and lessons sprinkled between the pages.
She shared her love for them with everyone that she met, and they were at the center of her most meaningful relationships.
Their voice and words spoke for her when she couldn’t speak for herself.
Teachers tried to tell her that she didn’t understand them, and mentors replaced her creativity with doubt. She stopped writing. No matter how much she resisted, books always found their way back to her. They called her home and she started writing again.
When she lost herself, they reminded her who she was. They always found her when she needed them the most.
They forced her to be quiet in a world that was relentlessly loud.
When her grandfather died, they made her feel like a piece of him would always be with her.
They brought her peace, joy, acceptance, encouragement, and happiness.
When she got sick, they gave her the power and the knowledge to fight for herself. The answers to her questions were waiting for her to find them in their pages.
They were her teachers, her therapists, and her friends.
I write for her. I write for the girl who was an open book like the one in her lap and the ones she held dear to her heart. I write for her innocent, child-like wonder of books, the stories they tell, and the life that she spent tucked inside them. Over the years, I have let others write my chapters for me, tear out my pages, close me up, and she has become buried underneath all of it. It’s time to crack her book wide open again, light that spark, create fire with my pen, and start a new chapter. She is the mirror in which I see my true self. I carry her close to my heart as I tell my story, and encourage/help others to do the same for themselves. No one else can tell the stories that I have to tell. Her story matters, my story matters, and your story matters. You are the author of your own story. Don’t let anyone else take your pen.