The Ritual of Writing

There was a moment not so long ago when the words returned to me.

After nearly twenty years of silence, I wrote my first poem. And it wasn’t just writing. It was something more. Something sacred.

My inner world was unraveling. I was struggling to cope, and nothing seemed to soothe the ache beneath the surface. One day, without planning to, I picked up a pen and a notebook. I sat down quietly. No audience. No expectations. Just me.

And then it happened.

Something took over.
The words came like water.
Imagery flowed through me.
It felt… otherworldly.

That poem, the first one in two decades, didn’t just mark a return to writing. It marked a return to myself. Since that day, writing has become my ritual.

Writing as a Sacred Act

Ritual, for me, isn’t about repetition for its own sake. It’s about reverence. Intention. Presence.

When I write, I’m not chasing perfection. I’m meeting myself on the page. I’m listening to the whispers beneath the noise. Sometimes it’s a whisper of grief. Sometimes joy. Sometimes memory or desire or fear. Whatever it is, I let it come.

The pen becomes a vessel.
The page becomes a witness.
The process becomes a prayer.

What Writing Gives Me

Writing has become the way I process what lives inside me. The places that feel too jagged to say aloud often come out in soft, poetic lines. When I write, I’m not trying to be brave. I’m just trying to be honest.

There’s something alchemical in turning pain into language. In turning confusion into metaphor. In watching something raw become something beautiful.

Even on the days I don’t want to show up, I do. Not because I’m disciplined, but because I’m devoted. Because writing is where I meet my truest self. Vulnerably bare. Beautifully scripted.

If You’ve Been Silent

Maybe you haven’t written in a while. Maybe you never have. But if something in you is stirring, if you’ve been carrying something wordless, shapeless, I invite you to pick up the pen.

You don’t need a perfect sentence. You don’t even need a plan. You just need a moment of stillness and a willingness to begin.

Let writing become a ritual, not a performance, but a practice. One that’s soft. One that’s yours. The ritual of writing is not about what we produce. It’s about what we uncover.

With love and ink,

Sharla