The Day I Almost Quit Writing
Every writer has a moment when the words stop coming, when the blank page feels like an accusation, and the silence feels permanent. Mine came on a gray morning when doubt sat heavy in my chest, louder than any sentence I could form.
It wasn’t just writer’s block—it was something deeper. A voice in my head whispering, Maybe you’re done. Maybe you’ve said all you have to say. And in that moment, it almost made sense. Why keep going if the words no longer felt alive? Why keep pouring into a well that suddenly felt empty?
I remember sitting there, staring at my laptop, and quietly deciding that maybe I’d just… stop. Not in some dramatic announcement, but in the quiet way people drift away from dreams.
And then, as if the universe refused to let me make that mistake, my phone rang. It was a friend—someone who had read my work for years, someone who knew my voice even when I didn’t recognize it myself.
She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t give me a long pep talk. She just said, “When are you getting back to writing? The world needs you.”
It stopped me cold. Because here was someone who didn’t care about my doubt, who refused to accept my silence, who reminded me that my words had always mattered—not because they were perfect, not because they earned applause, but because they were mine.
I realized that day that writing is not always about audience or accolades. Sometimes it’s about survival. It’s about putting down the truth so it doesn’t eat you alive. It’s about creating something, however small, in defiance of the part of you that wants to give up.
That gray morning could have been the day I quit. Instead, it became the day I remembered why I started.
And so I keep writing—not because the doubt is gone, but because the voice that insists keep going has learned to speak louder.
