Rekindling My Childhood Love for Writing

Rekindling My Childhood Love for Writing

There are some loves we never truly lose—we just forget where we kept them. Writing was mine.

As a child, I was the kind who stayed up past bedtime, flashlight in hand, scribbling on the back pages of old school notebooks. My stories were strange and silly—about animals that could talk, clouds that cried glitter, and forests that whispered secrets. My characters wore mismatched shoes and had magical umbrellas. There were no rules, no structure—only wonder.

My mother used to joke that I had more imaginary friends than real ones. But I didn’t mind. I had stories, and stories were better than friends—they always came back.

Back then, I didn’t write for anyone. I didn’t care about grammar or plot or feedback. I wrote because it made me feel alive. It was my way of breathing, of understanding the world, of escaping it when it felt too heavy.

But like many childhood things—crayons, swings, paper boats—writing got left behind.

The Silence That Followed

It started slowly. I began worrying about being “good.” I started comparing my messy, heartfelt stories to polished books in the library. Then school happened. Essays replaced poems. Word counts replaced imagination. Teachers corrected my voice until it sounded like everyone else’s.

By the time I was in high school, writing felt like a task, not a joy. I still had ideas, but I stopped putting them down. It was easier to keep them in my head, where no one could judge them—or me.

And then one day, without even realizing it, I stopped writing altogether.

Years passed. I grew up. Got a job. Paid bills. Lived like I was supposed to. But something always felt… muted. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt like I had lost a piece of myself. A spark. A secret window to something that once made everything feel vibrant.

The Accidental Return

Then one evening, during a long overdue cleaning session, I found a cardboard box buried in the corner of my closet. Inside was a pile of old notebooks, some falling apart, others still smelling faintly of pencil shaving and glue sticks.

Curious, I lipped one open.

The first page was titled, “The Moon That Forgot to Shine.”

I smiled. I remembered that story. I was nine when I wrote it. A tale of a sad moon who stopped glowing because no one thanked her for lighting up the sky. She went on strike, and the stars had to hold a meeting to convince her to come back.

It was ridiculous. It was magical. It was… me.

Page after page, I fell back into the world I had created years ago. I laughed at the misspellings, the strange metaphors, the overly dramatic endings. But I also felt something stir in me—something warm and familiar.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I took out an old notebook, found a pen, and wrote.

At first, it was awkward. The words felt rusty. The sentences stumbled. But as I kept going, something clicked. It wasn’t the writing itself that mattered—it was the feeling.

I was home.

Writing, Once Again

I didn’t post my writing online. I didn’t tell anyone. It was just for me. And for the first time in years, that was enough.

Over the next few months, I made writing a part of my day—ten minutes before bed, fifteen minutes during lunch breaks, scribbles on napkins, notes on my phone. I started small. Poems. Letters to my past self. Short, strange stories that made no sense but made me smile.

And then something beautiful happened.

I started seeing the world like a writer again.

A puddle wasn’t just a puddle—it was a portal. The barista wasn’t just making coffee—she was hiding from a secret life as a jazz singer. The old man feeding birds in the park wasn’t alone—he was talking to his late wife through the sparrows.

Everything had a story. Everything meant something.

Finding My Voice Again

Eventually, I got brave enough to share a piece online. My hands shook when I hit “post.” But to my surprise, people responded with kindness. Some said it reminded them of their childhood. Others said it made them cry, or laugh, or remember something they had long forgotten.

That’s when I realized: writing wasn’t just about me. It was about connection.

Through writing, I was reaching people. Comforting them. Making them feel seen. Just like stories once did for me.

Why It Matters

Rekindling my childhood love for writing didn’t change my life overnight. I still work my day job. I still get tired. I still doubt myself sometimes.

But now, I have this sacred thing—this soft, glowing ember inside me that reminds me who I am.

Writing is no longer something I left behind. It walks beside me. It grounds me. It heals me.

And on the days when the world feels too loud or too heavy, I open a blank page, and I write.

Because I know now: I never really stopped being a writer.

I just had to find my way back.