I am numb. I am stuck. I am sad. I am worried. For nearly six decades, writing has been my happy place; whenever I am challenged by life’s obstacles, I’ve turned to writing. Through a troubled adolescence, bedrest during three pregnancies, raising a family, losing loved ones, and three cancer diagnoses, I always trusted how writing brought me to a special healing place. Whether I was writing books, articles, or poems to express my own feelings or help others deal with theirs, I loved everything about the writing process.
My grandmother was also a writer, so the passion is already embossed on my DNA. My own passion for writing began at an early age. I was a ten-year-old only child when my grandmother and caretaker died by suicide in our home. To help me cope with this tragedy, my mother handed me a Khalil Gibran journal and told me to pour my love, grief, and feelings onto the pages of that journal. For hours on end I would sit on the floor of my walk-in closet, with clothes hanging in my face, writing by the light of its lone bulb. I learned that writing was healing and transformative. I still call myself a writer. I also love teaching and sharing my passion with others.
Because of my history with writing, I knew it could always help save me in what was a chaotic world. I also write because writing is my calling. I have boxes of completed journals, each one having…
