Today, I felt like myself for the first time in over two weeks.

I didn’t wake up feeling like myself. I woke up with the sense of dread that I had been feeling for the last 15+ days welling up inside me, knotting my stomach, making it hard to think and harder to feel, waking me up earlier than I should be awake and making me tired far too early.

But, in therapy today, I came to a realization, one that I have needed for a long time.

When I was young, I loved to write.

And I wrote for myself.

For me, writing was my place to be.

Writing was a way for me to create the me that I wanted to be, because no one was ever going to read the silly words of a little girl.

At some point along the way, maybe when I won my first creative writing contest, maybe when I started getting good grades on essays, maybe in college and graduate school, writing became a way to earn recognition. It became less about myself, my identity, my words, my stories, and more about my worth.

I began to write for others.

Today, part of my professional life is writing for others. I love that type of writing. It is important. It is a way for me to use my voice, the skills I have, and the knowledge I’ve gained to speak to others that are not in close proximity.

I also keep this blog and am active on social media. I love that type of writing too. It allows me to connect and express myself, honestly and authentically. It feels like a place to be seen and heard.

But, today, I also decided to reclaim my right to write for myself, to have my own space and place to let things out and let them go.

So I wrote, in a notebook, with (two) pen(s) (the first one ran out of ink mid-page).

And then I did something that was freeing.

I ripped out the page.

I crumpled it up.

I threw it away.

I struggled with the act of ripping out the page.

For one, I did not write on the back side of the page and I hate wasting blank paper.

Additionally, the words felt important, a reflection on lessons I’ve learned today, which were important.

I spent time on those words. My future self might need those words. My children might want to hold on to me through those words.

Or, they might want to hold on to me through my presence.

Perhaps those words, re-reading them, holding on to them, predicting how my present self could counsel my future self instead of just letting my present self be, could be released.

So, I did it.

I ripped out the page.

I crumpled it up.

I threw it away.

I could literally feel the freedom in every moment, from the ripping of the page, to the crumpling of it in my hands to its placement in the recycling bin.

I will still write this blog. I will still write the academic pieces that are part of my professional life. I will still write for others.

But I will now also write for myself, perhaps to keep, perhaps to let go, but mostly, to be.

I am moving towards freedom.

It is not a linear path.

But it is in forward motion today.

I am letting go.

Walking freely and forward and in love.

And in doing so, I am returning to the home that I have longed for so much.