I’ve written all my life, from my name in preschool to writing features on websites. 

I loved writing. 

Until I no longer did. 

Writing used to be a way for me to calm down and keep my emotions in check as they bounced around in my head, but now writing sets fire to my brain, leaving me with a migraine. 

Every story I write has its own emotion connected to it, like “My Room Is Messy” held its own emotion about being afraid to let go of what I felt I needed to survive, to “My Favorite Stranger” being about the connection I had with someone from the very beginning. 

Every story has a secret meaning inside it, and every story is a secret of some sort — so personal and cherished.

I’ve lost myself trying to find my voice in writing, and it feels as if with every story I write, I give a piece of myself away. 

I’m afraid that soon there will not be a piece of myself left to give. 

I can’t say that I won’t miss it, the joy of knowing people keep a piece of my heart somewhere near. I know I’ll miss all the people I have met that pushed me and believed in me when I wasn’t able to believe in myself. 

But all good things must come to an end. 

I will never say that I won’t write again; I feel as if I typed on a page everything thus far. Maybe it is time to take a break and live in freedom, keeping my secrets to myself for a while. Until I’m ready again to tear the endearing pages of my diary out and show to the world. 

I will live my life and I will come back and give the world tiny pieces of my heart once again, but for now, my heart needs time to heal. 

I love writing—I love it so much it hurts, and I’ll miss every single person who has pushed me to be my best and who has appreciated my effort, no matter how substandard they were. 

Thank you for allowing me to heal through my writing. 

This Isn’t goodbye, this is a small farewell to the thing that has kept my head afloat for so long. Thank you for being there for me when the world felt a little too big or small.

To writing~