I first spoke about this in We All Have to Begin Somewhere—a quiet reckoning with the fear that held my words back. This is what came after. The silence, the slow trust in language, and the ember that stayed lit. Writing has never come easily, but now I return—words in motion, voice unfolding.
There was a time when even a short email felt like climbing a mountain in slippers. The terrain felt uneven. The stakes, outsized. I’d carry thoughts with me for hours—whole phrases rehearsed in silence while rinsing mugs or watching steam rise from a kettle. Fingers hovered above keys. The cursor blinked like it knew the truth before I did. Language felt just beyond reach—close enough to haunt, far enough to evade. I’d whisper sentences internally, sense how they might sound in someone else’s mind, then abandon them. The risk of being misunderstood felt almost greater than the ache of remaining silent.
It wasn’t that I lacked things to say. It was the act of saying them—rendering thought into form—that felt strangely perilous. Words once alive in my body clammed up. The page became a stage, and I wasn’t ready to be seen.
Writing, I’ve come to understand, isn’t just a mechanical transfer of ideas. It’s a threshold. And I spent many years camped just beyond it, listening to silence, holding unspoken truths, waiting.
I first spoke about this in a letter called We All Have to Begin Somewhere —a quiet reckoning with the fear that kept my words locked away. That was the first flicker. What follows here is the long burn beneath it.
Most people I know learned to write through habit—notes passed in class, diary entries, casual storytelling. I learned by hesitating. In those early years, even the smallest act of writing felt overwhelming. Emails, birthday messages, thank-you notes—they all became arenas where my voice faltered. I’d rewrite a sentence a dozen times. Hit send with a pounding heart. Or not at all. And on more than one occasion, I simply never replied—not because I didn’t care, but because I couldn’t find words that felt safe, true, survivable.
This wasn’t limited to personal notes. In my work too—writing to colleagues, replying to clients, responding to everyday requests—I found the same paralysis. I’d hesitate, over-edit, then postpone. Not because I didn’t know what to say. But because the words didn’t trust themselves yet. Even in professional spaces, my writing felt exposed. As though every sentence was a quiet performance under invisible scrutiny.
There was something in the act of fixing words to page that felt exposing. Final. Like once a thought became language, it could be judged or misread—dissected or dismissed. Writing felt permanent, even when it wasn’t. And I feared that permanence. I told myself I was bad at writing. That I lacked eloquence. But deep down, it was simpler and sharper: I didn’t believe what I had to say had any value.
And yet, I kept thinking. Feeling. Noticing things others missed. My voice didn’t disappear—it waited. Hesitant, yes. But still mine.
It’s tempting to imagine that journaling cracked the door open—that I poured my heart into notebooks and found solace in sentences. But the truth is quieter. I’ve tried journaling many times. Earnestly. Hopefully. And I’ve stopped, just as often. Not for lack of feeling. But for lack of words.
I’d open a blank page, ready to meet myself in ink—and nothing would come. A fog settled. Not reflective silence, but the kind that hides things. I’d scribble half a thought. Cross it out. Abandon the page altogether. That pattern repeated across years. And while I envied those who found clarity in pages, I couldn’t force it. My inner world resisted translation.
And yet, something in me kept returning. Even when I couldn’t write, I hovered near the possibility. I’d jot fragments in margins, voice stray sentences aloud, think in rhythm. Expression didn’t flow, but it pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Eventually, in the midst of emotional exhaustion—caregiving, heartbreak, depletion—I stopped trying to journal in the traditional sense. I began, instead, to note what was real. Short phrases. Single words. Scenes from dreams. Not because they made sense, but because they were mine.
That quiet return wasn’t dramatic. But it taught me something: writing doesn’t require fluency. Sometimes, it simply asks us to show up—even when what we bring feels incomplete.
As language began to stir again, I noticed it couldn’t be forced—it needed stillness, attention, something gentler than discipline. I didn’t establish rituals, but I began to listen for what helped. Silence that held space. A breeze through the open window. The right kind of music, if any. These conditions didn’t summon words, but they made space for them. Writing shifted—from effort to invitation
Some days I’d write only a sentence. Some days none at all. But the ritual itself became a kind of writing—a way of saying, “I’m here,” even if language had not yet arrived. The page, once fearful, became more like a garden I returned to. Quiet, expectant, forgiving.
When I began writing short stories, I learned something quickly: my words did not arrive on demand. They steeped. A story might begin as a half-scene, a mood, a whisper of dialogue. I wouldn’t draft it immediately. I’d walk with it—sometimes for days. I’d turn phrases in my head, carry them like pocket stones, smoothing them with thought.
Some stayed with me for weeks. A few for months. And though the pace felt glacial compared to those who wrote daily with abandon, I knew mine needed time. The ideas weren’t resisting me—they were composting. Growing tendrils. Rooting into something deeper. Deadlines didn’t suit me—not because I lacked commitment, but because the work was underground.
Often, I’d feel behind. As if I should be faster, more prolific. But I came to realise that slow creation wasn’t a flaw. It was fidelity. My stories needed time to root. To unfold. And I, as their witness, had to learn patience.
The long burn, I began to call it. A writing process lit slowly, sustained gently, allowed to breathe.
And then, almost unexpectedly, I found a bridge across the silence. During a quiet conversation, someone suggested I try dictating my thoughts aloud—no structure, no grammar, no expectation. Just voice. I hesitated. But I tried.
At first, I stammered. Spoke in starts. But slowly, something in me relaxed. I began pacing rooms with a phone in hand, talking through ideas. Describing scenes. Asking myself questions and answering instinctively. My thoughts, previously caged by keyboards, became freer in air. Speech-to-text didn’t polish my words. But it bypassed the paralysis. The filter of “good writing.” It caught truth in motion—before doubt could solidify.
I realised then: I wasn’t broken as a writer. I was just wired differently. My words needed movement. Breath. Presence. Dictation gave me that. It didn’t replace writing—but it unlocked it. Some of my strongest drafts began this way: a voice in motion becoming a sentence in stillness.
I haven’t mastered writing. I don’t expect to. Each time I sit down, I relearn the terrain. Some days, the page greets me warmly. Others, I circle it warily. But the fear that once kept me silent feels less sharp now. The page, less threatening. The process, more sacred than strategic.
Writing, for me, is a quiet unfolding. A gesture of faith. A conversation between language and longing. It begins not with brilliance, but with presence. It continues not by force, but by ritual. And some days, even when the words don’t come—I write anyway. By brewing the tea. Lighting the candle. Speaking a single sentence aloud.
Because the ember remains. It doesn’t blaze. It waits. It stays warm beneath the ash, patient through seasons of silence. When I return—even after weeks or longer—it’s still there. Not judging, just ready. A small warmth that believes in the voice beneath the hesitation.
And maybe—after all these years—I can finally say: even though writing has never come easily, and even though I struggled to believe it mattered, what I have to say was always worth saying.
Until next time.
A beautiful piece of writing. My favorite writer Dostoyesvky also dictated some of his works (or parts of them). Perhaps, this is one of the numerous reasons I love his writing so much...