At seventeen, after never really knowing what my purpose would be, I realised that my diary entries, my thoughts, my words, could mean something to someone other than myself.
I can pinpoint the exact moment when I decided I wanted to become a journalist. It was after I had written a letter to my grandfather the morning of his passing, a letter which I ended up reading to my family at the funeral.
It felt empowering seeing how my words were helping me heal, but also making others smile through the tears as they remembered they were not alone, as they remember the good memories, he had left us with.
After finding the words “I love you and I will miss you” didn’t quite gather all of my emotions, didn’t quite express how big my love was, my mom suggested I write a letter.
The letter would be my goodbye to someone I had loved and hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to. It would be my chance to get everything out of my chest. And somehow deep down I believed that even if he couldn’t read my words, he would know that all those things were true.
I have always had a love for writing, writing thoughts, writing songs, writing stories. For as long as I can remember writing has acted like a form of therapy for me.
I got it from my mom. She started a diary the day she found out she was pregnant with me. That must have something to do with my love for it, I am sure about it. Even when I was in the womb, the love for writing surrounded me.
Nowadays when I write, I always have that young teen that would fill up the pages of notebooks with her thoughts in mind. Sometimes she would write happy stories, sometimes sad, but however she felt it always led to writing.
Writing makes me remember the pages marked with tears as I couldn’t hold my emotions in anymore. It makes me remember my grandfather and how proud he would be if he even knew what I have become. It makes me remember that one letter that made me confess my love to writing.
Feature image credit: Paula León