In March of 2020, I was supposed to take a solo writing retreat to Quebec City. A train ride, a quiet room, a notebook—just me and the words. But like so many plans that year, it never happened. What unfolded instead was something unexpected: I found a way to retreat inward, right where I was. This is the story of how a cancelled trip helped me create something even more meaningful.

After a nearly 20-year hiatus from poetry, I found myself in the depths of emotional despair, disconnected from myself and my creativity and unsure how to move forward. Then one day, I picked up a pen. What came out wasn't planned, polished, or perfect. It was honest. This post shares the very first poem I wrote after all that time, and how writing became a ritual of self-rescue, faith, and healing.