Writing is a struggle against silence.
It is a rare moment when words are not a sufficient container for me to pack in the things I’m feeling. Words are in my marrow. When I was little my mother kept a diary for me, writing everything I did every day. (Entries included “I had fun at the park today!”). When she taught me to write at four years old, she bought me my own diary and told me I could start writing down my own thoughts. I remember how furious it made me at the time. Why was she giving up on writing my life story?
But eventually I understood. It was mine to write. She taught me young.