I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember — first in secret diaries, then in blogs, and now here. What started as a private refuge has, over time, collided with the strange pressures of writing in a public world. This is the story of how I lost, reclaimed, and redefined my relationship with words — and why today, writing has returned to being my most private joy.
Writing for me started very young. I remember those little diaries where I poured all my teen-angst — crushes, heartbreaks (mostly imaginary!), scraps of quotes, shayari, and song lines that spoke to my romanticized self. By the time I was done, I had 3–4 thick tomes filled with deeply personal scribbles — names, incidents, wild notions of love explained with all the seriousness of youth.
And then it all came crashing down.
During a visit home from my MBA hostel, I discovered that a house “sorting exercise” had included discarding my precious diaries along with other raddi. That moment — more than the crushes — felt like my first true heartbreak. I felt vulnerable, exposed, and oddly betrayed by my “own” people.
I didn’t hold on to the grudge for long, but it took me years before I could return to writing. And when I did, it was digital. Somewhere I think I was safeguarding against the possibility of being discarded again — by anyone other than me.
But the writing was different now. Sporadic, heavier, more about anguish than dreams. The calm I once found in writing felt missing. Soon, life’s pulls and pushes took over, and I let it go.
It resurfaced later, when I was single again and living alone for the first time. Writing became therapy. I was regurgitating the past, trying to make sense of what had happened, reclaiming the belief that I mattered. For the first time, I shared my words in a blog. A deeply private act moved into a semi-public space — though I felt safe thinking, “Why would a random stranger want to read this?” Friends became my first audience.
But slowly, something shifted. My words became less about what I needed to say, and more about what I thought others wanted to hear. That realization cut deep. I prided myself on being above “superficial” compromises, and suddenly I wasn’t. Once again, writing slowed.
Over time, I wrote only when stirred — when something in the world demanded a response, or when emotions ran too strong to stay inside. Those pieces carried the energy of “I have a voice, and I want my world to know it.”
Yet even that rhythm faltered. A sharp challenge from a reader, a partner’s gentle caution, and the awareness that digital words often echo uncomfortably in real life — all of it began to weigh on me. My creativity dried up when I became too self-conscious. I found myself choosing “safe” topics. The joy was replaced with caution.
And then motherhood changed everything. Writing was no longer “I matter too,” it became “I want you to know what matters to me.” On my son’s very first birthday, I began a tradition: a letter to him every year, filled with hopes, dreams, and small moments that defined us. I wanted him to know me not just as his mother, but as a person.
The greatest gift? He writes back now — birthday mails, even Mother’s Day notes. These letters are treasures I hold dearer than anything I own.
And so, here I am. In a world where everything is public, curated, and optimized for an audience, writing has circled back to its origins for me. Deeply personal. A private joy. A space where I can simply be.
At this stage of life, I no longer need an audience. Writing itself is enough.
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