#WhyIWrite

I wrote  my first rant in the eighth grade. It was in the form of a poem. We had to title it "I Hate" and list all of the things we hated. I remember struggling with this; I've never been a complainer let alone a hater. The final line was a direct result of my teacher's tongue-in-cheek sense of humor: "But Other Than That, I'm Not Picky."

In high school, I wrote notes to friends, folded up in intricate triangles that assumed the role of Fort Knox if you were attempting to open them. They were passed surrepitiously in class, begging to be opened when the teacher was not looking.

I wrote about my very first days in the classroom--how I lacked confidence but lived on caffeine, how I was barely swimming above water and how I just so very much wanted to change the world. I forgot that year just to try to change the 18 kids in that classroom. My goals were far too big. They still are.

I wrote about a car accident I experienced the year after I graduated college that almost killed me. The shards of glass that were in my mouth, the roll of the car three times across lanes of traffic, and my shoes that landed in the back seat of my car--all captured in a leather bound journal.

I wrote my first love letter to my husband. I gave it to him the day we got married.

I wrote a poem when I miscarried two of my babies. And another when we lost my father-in-law unexpectedly within that same week. The grief that poured out hit the paper with tear-stained emotion and a choked up sense of sadness that only could be described in words.

I wrote a heart on my children's palms the first day they went to kindergarten so they could remember I was always with them. I wrote countless notes on slips of paper, tucking them neatly into my children's lunch boxes. Lunchtime smiles.

I write letters every year to thank people important to me or to tell people they matter. People need to hear those things. Letter writing is a dying art, but one we need to continue to breathe life into. There is nothing better than receiving a letter in the mail, handwritten from someone you know. I save any letter anyone writes me. This box is 19 years of letters from students--some of the best gifts I have ever been given.

I write a blog. I attempt to give my students some glimpse into my chaotic whirlwind I call a life--my life.

I write texts--unaccompanied by emojis.

I have always been a writer. From the moment I was able to communicate and put words together, I have found them powerful. For me, I could always write what I wanted to say, even at times when I wasn't able to vocalize it. Last year, I vowed to make writing a regular part of my life. I started to wake up with sentences in my head. One night, I awoke at 2 a.m. and wrote an entire blog. Words began to creep into my mind when I was running, when I was serving as a taxi driver for my kids, when I was lying on the couch reading with my daughter, when I was cooking dinner. Words started to surround me, and I surrendered to their poise, elegance, beauty, and passion.

So why do I write?  On this National Day on Writing, I write because I am human. I write to understand humanity. I write because it is the one thing that brings us closer together as humans. Words bind us. They connect us in a way that we can't be connected otherwise. If you've ever been so kind to take the time to read my words--in a blog, an email, a letter, a text, on a napkin, or folded into an intricate triangle and passed to you in a high school class--know I chose my words carefully. Know that the words connected us; they always will connect us.  I write and never will stop writing, never stop dreaming, never stop growing, never stop believing in the absolute power of the written word.