For most of my life, I thought of myself as a visual creator. It felt natural. I expressed myself through crafts, photography, design, and video.
Colors, shapes, and textures were my first language.Writing was always there too, but quietly. Lesson plans. Journal entries. Video scripts. I used words to organize, not to create.
Somewhere along the way, that changed. Not with a big decision. Not overnight. Writing simply wove itself into my days, thread by thread.
It surprised me. Writing asked for stillness. For patience. It wasn’t about arranging or building. It was about listening. Trusting half-formed thoughts. Following a thread without knowing where it might lead.
Today, writing is where I feel most like myself. It’s how I notice the world. How I shape ideas. How I stay curious.
I haven’t left behind my love for the visual. I still find joy in color, texture, and form. But words have become my main way of making sense of it all.
I never planned for this. I simply followed what felt true. And somewhere along the way, writing became home.
Our creative selves are always unfolding. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes in ways we never expect.
