Writing didn’t save me—Until I let it be messy

Let’s be honest: most people assume that writing is supposed to be polished, inspiring, and—at the very least—productive. It should be something that is worthy of sharing. It's something that carries a sense of intelligence.

But for me, it wasn’t any of those things.

This was not the first time.

It was raining the day it hit me.

It's not a dramatic movie storm with lightning and loud thunder—it's just the kind of soft, stubborn rain that seeps in slowly. It is the type of rain that infuses everything with a subtle sense of weight. This sensation is felt both internally and externally.

I was sitting by the window, surrounded by half-finished drafts, open tabs titled “how to write better,” and a cold cup of coffee that had already been microwaved twice. I wasn’t writing—I was circling. I was navigating between various distractions. Reading other people’s essays, comparing myself, convincing myself I wasn’t ready. I was convinced that I lacked the necessary words to express myself.

I kept asking myself:

How can one compose something genuine when they don't quite feel like themselves at the moment?

I thought writing would give me clarity.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The real problem was this: I was waiting to feel ready before I began.

I am ready to be insightful. Ready to be healed. I am prepared to appear as if I have everything under control.

But clarity doesn’t come before the writing.

Clarity comes through the writing.

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French philosopher Michel de Montaigne—who basically invented the personal essay—once said that we write not to declare what we know, but to discover what we think. That line stuck with me. Probably because it gave me permission to stop pretending I had answers.

For years, I wrote for results. I wrote blog posts optimized for clicks, tips that sounded good but felt empty. I wrote in a voice that wasn’t mine. I wrote with the hope that people would clap at the end.

But when I finally let the writing be for me, when I let it get messy, something shifted.

I wasn’t writing to impress anymore. I was writing to survive.

To process. To understand.

I am eager to experience something again.

And here’s the twist: when I stopped trying to be impressive, my writing got better.

It became true not because it became more poetic or profound, but because it became true.

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Why Personal Essays Matter (Even If You’re Not “Profound”)

Let’s clear something up right now:

You don’t need a dramatic life story to write something meaningful.

You don’t need:

• A PhD in mindfulness
• A viral moment
• A poetic metaphor about rain (though I clearly enjoy one)

You just need:

• A real moment that made you stop
• A question that still haunts you
• And the courage to sit with your confusion

Personal essays don’t have to be polished or perfect.

They just have to be honest.

Some of the most powerful writing I’ve ever read came from people who said, “I don’t really know what the answer is yet,” and wrote anyway.

The thing is, vulnerability doesn’t come with a clear outline.

And authenticity isn't concerned about structure.

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What Helped Me Start (and Might Help You)

Here are five mindset shifts that changed how I approached the page:

1. The first draft is supposed to suck. That’s not a flaw—it’s the beginning. Let it be weird— rambling, unfiltered.

2. People don’t remember perfection—they remember connection. If your voice is honest, that’s enough.

3. Small is powerful. A single moment—one dinner conversation, one glance, one sentence—can open a whole world.

4. You don’t have to be certain. Ask the questions that scare you. You don’t have to answer them (yet).

5. You’re not alone. Every writer doubts themselves. That doubt isn’t proof you should stop—it’s proof you’re about to say something real.

If you're having trouble, try this writing prompt that really opened my eyes:

“The day I realized I couldn’t keep pretending…”

Set a timer for 20 minutes. No edits. No self-censorship. Just write.

Let it be awkward. Let it be real. Then read it back and ask:

Where did I feel something? Where did I flinch? What did I almost skip over?

That’s where the gold is.

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Final Thought

You don’t need to be brilliant to begin.

Writing something meaningful doesn't require healing.

You just need to show up—with whatever version of yourself is true today.

That version might be tired, messy, and uncertain—but it’s you.

And that’s more than enough.

Sometimes, the essay you're most afraid to write is the exact one someone else needs to read.

And sometimes—let’s be real—it’s the exact one you need to read, too.