Write in the Dark

I write so that I don’t feel alone. Writing and reading are how we tether ourselves to one another—binding us to our senses, expanding our world, and making room for the things we only imagine. That is why I am here, in this space. I am writing toward a deeper connection with myself and my people—the ones I know and those I have yet to meet. I write for a more meaningful relationship with the source of my strength: my ancestors and the Creator. I am here, seeking connection.

Writing is how I’ve always connected the dots. From the little purple diary (with the most easily pickable lock known to man) I received as a birthday gift at ten to the journals I’ve repeatedly tried and abandoned, writing has been my constant companion—even when I wasn’t great company. So much of my life has been a solo climb, an experiment in isolation. I was an only child, and as an adult, I’m childless by choice and single by... well, chile, you tell me.

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Learning to enjoy being alone was a necessity of survival. I learned to do my healing and processing alone, a common theme in the lives of children raised by people facing addiction: you learn to go where it is safe. When the road needs mending, we return to what we know best. I know “alone” well. But I also know writing—my steadfast friend.

A woman who depends on the safety of alone seeks connection. So she writes.

And now, here I am. On this couch, in a kinda shitty apartment, in a city where I hardly know a soul, writing every Sunday. I write so the “alone” I know and trust doesn’t sink into the misery of loneliness. I write, so one day alone isn’t my only way to face the world. Writing is my way of seeing myself and inviting others to see me too—more fully, intimately, and truthfully.

Every week, I honor a promise to myself: to write my way into something bigger. Each essay is a quiet revolution, a step toward trusting myself. I am creating a space where my words help me cross the bridge from isolation to connection.

A former therapist once told me something I carry with me still: You can do all the healing you want in private, but true healing happens when you take yourself back outside. When you let people meet you as you are—knowing it could all go wrong—and trust that you’ll survive.

For years, I avoided a real relationship with public writing. I feared letting people see the shadows in my thoughts. Writing has always been my refuge, the safest place to explore my complexities, but I worried: What if I share my world and people come but choose not to stay? Or worse, What if they find nothing worth staying for? A loneliness not of my own making.

But running from yourself becomes exhausting. And so, I’ve stopped (I pray). When I choose honesty and vulnerability as my writing companions, I feel the road’s opening, never closing—roads that lead to monumental people, places, and moments I’ve been too afraid to face.

Writing here teaches me to trust that what’s waiting on the other side of fear is worth the risk. That connection—a real, soul-deep connection—is worth the leap.

Woman seeks connection.

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