I Write Because

I write because I am hungry.

I write because you might find some validation.

I write "to help my clients" but let’s be clear—I’m usually helping myself make sense of something first. My client finding that same thing helpful is just collateral healing. 

I write because I am good at it. When I was young, people would tell me to be a writer when I grew up. 

(But I solemnly said No. I love writing too much to ever make it my job.) 

I write because I have all this Enneagram Type 4 blood coursing through my body. I am descended from the poets, playwrights, mystics, healers and helpers. And I need to move this spirit out of me sometimes. 

I write because thoughts careen through my head all day long, but only a fraction can I ever wrangle and slow down to the speed of pen or keyboard. 

I write because I’ve been invited to. And I’ve been saying yes to the invitation a lot more these days. 

I write because I make time for it. Because I make less time for email. 

I write because I can. And I get to. 

I write because I’m in love. I’m in joy. And it’s fun. 

I write because I have energy from the 14 almonds I just scarfed down. Almonds are sweet—sometimes you don’t know these things. Until you write about them. 

I write because I mostly write things I will never read again, but every once in a while there is a gem. It’s why we live all that life in between the exhalations. For the gems.

I write because it’s an adventure to fill up pages. To attack. Voraciously. 

I write because, at other times, it’s delicious to retreat. To remember the view from Goat Hill Pizza as the sun goes down. Sourdough crust. Where even a vegetarian will eat a slice of pepperoni. Where we drew our dreams on the white paper placemats. 

I write because how else can we connect; reflect; learn; keep track of; or savor anything at all? How else can we live on after we die? Children. Writing.

What else can truly persist? 

I write because of trauma and the healing that comes when you write a new story to walk with. 

I write because of pain. How to stay in pain, but not in suffering. 

I write because I’m alive. Not for long. 

I write because my girls will have that much more to puzzle through after I am gone. 

And I smile picturing their eyes — chocolate chip brown and hazy cyan — flitting over my words. Turning my answers into their questions.

Because I wrote.