I’m a writer? I’m a writer.
Same words. Two very different sentences.
Punctuation is fun. Before I geek out on a grammar tangent and go straight down a rabbit hole, I’ll get to the point.
Today, as I ate some pasta and pesto after work, it hit me like a lightning bolt—I am a writer.
It was the feeling like, oh yeah, that makes sense.
After seven years of publishing words, stumbling, and continuing to learn and grow, it was like some distant part of me had finally gotten the memo. Well, dang, it’s about time.
Because here’s the truth —I live for the infinite ways words combine to make sense of life, to push me deeper into explorations of emotion, to help me remember my Self, to constantly rediscover that pulsing place of “okayness” amidst feelings of drowning, exhaustion, and confusion.
I long for beauty, whether it’s from watching the earth erupt in purple echinacea blossoms each summer or from the enchantment of a story.
I long for strength, the kind that comes from wounds as they heal, the kind that comes from the pure grit and determination that lies within us all, the kind that whispers wisely when I tell everyone to f*ck off so I can create. (Okay, I usually say it nicer than that).
But you know what? I want to own my identity as a writer. I’m so sick of succumbing to the self-critical voices inside that keep me small. They snicker and tell me that my writing is no big deal, not good enough, or somehow less-than.
Ugh. I want to challenge that bullsh*t with a megaphone the size of a mountain—writing is not just this cute little thing I do sometimes.
Nope. It’s a glaring, gigantic part of me.
Something my soul needs. Something my lungs crave. Something my entire body requires to feel — well—like me.
Creativity is life-blood.
Do you hear me out there, beyond the fog of our self-doubtful voices?
Damn, they can be so loud and relentless.
What is that thing that just lights you up? Do you love to paint, dance, sing, write, knit, sew, garden, or draw?
Awesome. It really doesn’t matter if you’re good at it. You don’t need to birth a successful side hustle or gain strangers’ approval online.
If it brings joy and juiciness and freedom and truth — my gosh, that is more than enough. That is nourishment. That is delight.
The power of creativity knows no bounds.
So as artists, as makers of beauty, writers, dancers, wordsmiths, musicians, happy hobbyists—
Let’s own our f*cking art.
Let’s stand tall and not just shrug our shoulders and look down while muttering halfheartedly that yeah, we kinda make art sometimes, whatever.
Let us be proud.
Let us sing out and reach hearts with the beauty of hope and hurt, sadness and pain and joy and the glorious sting of what it is to be human.
Let us wake in the tender rose gold light of morning and greet this art as medicine. As alchemy. As wondrous and divine.
Let us linger in museums and gasp in pleasure at the incredible power of self-expression, the ability of our souls to be stirred, for life to be splattered onto a canvas and experiences to be translated into colors and textures and words.
No matter how society seems to say otherwise with budget cuts in art and music programs, we need art.
Art is primal. Art is for everyone. It’s that place in our gut where we just…feel.
Time stands still, frozen for mere moments as we twirl inward and outward at the same time. The ground kisses the sky and fresh mountains are formed. Inner landscapes spread for days like butter, soothing blisters from the burns of this at-times harsh and brutal world.
Art is important. It touches the spark inside us that will never die. It is a soft breath of mystery. It is tasting awe until our chins are drenched in mango juice, like we’ve been dipped in the sunset.
Art is meaningful. It slaps us awake from numbed complacency and forces feelings to pulse through our veins. It casts spells of strength on our hearts.
Art is wild. It can get us through the sh*tty times. It’s the music we turn to when we’re sad, the poetry that hits us to the core and makes us feel seen; it’s doodling in math class to try to pay attention.
Art is love. It fosters compassion, empathy, and insight. It bursts our minds wide open, to consider new perspectives that beckon like thick highways into faraway lands.
Art is the place where spirit and flesh meet.
With the distilled wonder of a shot of imagination, your throat burns from sweet liquor made from flowers, tears, and truth.
Suddenly, anything possible.