Taking My Words Back

I remember when I used to write regularly as a young woman. Writing was woven into my daily life — poetry, thoughts, quiet observations. I loved the feeling of pen on paper, the way words could steady me and give shape to what I felt.

I’m not especially sentimental, but I kept most of what I wrote. And then I lost it — destroyed by a jealous partner. When I learned what had happened, I felt both shamed and heartbroken. The betrayal cut deeply, not just because the writing was gone, but because something personal and sacred had been violated.

Since then, I’ve dipped in and out of journaling, never fully returning. I’ve carried a quiet fear that my words might be read, judged, or destroyed — physically or emotionally. That fear followed me longer than I realized.

Lately, though, something is shifting. I’m beginning to understand that I am my only true critic. I get to decide what I write, why I write, and the value of what I create. My words belong to me. They are not fragile, and neither am I.

This feels like the beginning of taking my voice back — gently, intentionally, and without apology.