"I don't like to write. I like to have written."
This passage has been attributed to many writers, and it applies to me too.
Not all the time, but some of the time.
Like when I'm in a lull. When ideas aren't coming to me. When there's so much going on that I have a perspective on. When there's so much to comment on.
But sometimes the words and ideas don't come. Sometimes the inspiration is lacking. Sometimes things are just off.
My desire to share stories, perspectives, and ideas is strong. I believe that I inspire other people when I write.
About my experiences. About inclusion and belonging. About empathy and connection. And relationships and culture and mindfulness and diversity.
But sometimes the wordsmith in me gets buried underneath a pile of dirty laundry and I pass out from the smell and am unable to concoct a basic sentence.
Or an interesting metaphor.
Yet, the desire to contribute, to share my voice, to interact with others remains.
So I carry on. I document, I don't create.
I share what's going on in my head, both as a cathartic exercise, but also to model vulnerability and reflection and self-empathy.
Because we've all felt stuck. With writing. With our careers. With our relationships.
It's okay. Push on through. That's what I'm doing.