Why I Started Writing Again (And Why You Should Too)

"When the world fell silent around me, I learned that words could build a world of my own. Writing became therapy on a budget—naming the wounds when nothing else could, and taking back my power one sentence at a time."

—Carolina Borges

I started writing poetry in 2014, and by the time I moved across the country in 2016, it was the only thing that felt like mine. I was a Florida girl dropped into a Michigan winter with nothing but a suitcase, a strained relationship with my mother, and a boyfriend who introduced me to art but couldn’t always be there. I was isolated, trying to figure out who I was. So I wrote poems, haikus, and journal entries. I took photos with his camera. Creativity became my survival instinct.

But life got loud. Breakups happened. So did old habits, self-doubt, and the kind of mental noise that makes you stop believing your words are worth hearing. I stopped writing—not because I didn’t need it, but because I didn’t think I deserved it anymore. And when I wasn’t writing, I felt it. I felt disconnected. Like I was drifting without an anchor.

When I met my now-husband, I was still holding onto habits that once felt like relief—an occasional joint, a glass (sometimes bottle) of wine, distractions that dulled more than they healed. But my husband helped me see things differently. Not by judging, but by simply being there—stable, grounded, curious. It made me want to take a deeper look at myself.

Over time, I let go of what wasn’t serving me. The expensive habits. The emotional crutches. I realized I didn’t need them to feel like myself anymore. I wanted clarity. I wanted creativity. I wanted to stop escaping and start expressing.

As I started working as a digital writer at a local news station, I thought I was finally using my voice. But something about that world—the way it spotlighted tragedy and fear—pulled me back into a mental fog. I didn’t want to tell stories soaked in blood and headlines. I wanted to create something filled with light. I even launched my own project—Shining Light Journal—a publication dedicated to good news.

For a while, it helped. I dug through endless headlines, searching for hope, for kindness, for something that made the world feel less broken. But after a month of non-stop researching, editing, and reading through police reports at work, the burnout hit me harder than I expected.

I was trying to light a candle in a hurricane. And somewhere along the way, I realized: I didn’t just want to tell better stories. I needed to live one.

Something inside me was still waiting to break free. To create. To feel.

And then motherhood happened.

It cracked me open in a different way. Not all at once. Just in scraps—lines whispered in my head during feedings, poems scribbled between naps, memories I didn’t want to lose. I wasn’t just writing for me anymore. I was writing for her—my daughter. So she could know who I was, and so I could remember too.

Now I write to make sense of the chaos. To stay rooted in who I am. Not just as a mom. Not just as a woman. But as someone with stories to tell—finally ready to tell them.

And you? You should write again because you matter. Your voice, your story, your perspective—someone out there needs it. Even if that someone is just you.

Don’t wait for the perfect time. Don’t wait until it’s polished. Just write.

Start with a sentence. Let it be messy. Let it be angry. Let it be unfinished. Because even unfinished words are still a beginning.

If your creative fire feels like it went out, don’t look for fireworks. Look for embers. There’s warmth in the ashes. You just have to reach in.

So pick up the pen. Open the notes app. Say the thing out loud. Then write it down.

Your story isn’t over.

It’s just waiting for you to come back.