Maybe we’ll be best friends this time

I thought I’d just post a blog entry without the usual, non-obligatory apology for being away for so long. But something about that didn’t feel right. I’ve created a safe space here, and to not acknowledge what’s been going on in my head these past few years would only make me feel more disconnected from the process than I already do.

Writing has been lingering in the back of my mind all this time. Sometimes it showed up as a quiet thought—reminding me that it was something I began loving long ago, when I knew nothing, and yet it gave me the deepest sense of fulfillment. It was one of the few things that made me feel proud of contributing something to the world. Other times, the urge to write came from the people who read my words—those who wanted to understand me through what I shared.

But maybe none of that mattered as much as what I felt inside. When I started college, everything shifted. My priorities changed. I stopped paying attention to myself—something I once believed was the highest form of living. I became numb, so disconnected from who I was that I couldn’t even recognize what was wrong. Over time, that confusion turned into resentment for the person I had become, and a deep regret over the time I felt I had wasted.

But I’m grateful I found my way back to myself. I feel like me again.

A lot has changed since the last time I wrote—beyond just myself. There aren’t as many people waiting for a blog post anymore, and the website no longer has the stats and features that once gave me a push to write. It’s strange how all of this could disappear one day—just vanish without warning.

I’ve spent years giving myself twenty four reasons not to write, convincing myself it wasn’t the right time or that it no longer mattered. But nothing ever changed. So, this time, there are no more excuses. No more “buts.”

This new chapter of writing is held together by a fragile thread of hope—that maybe my words are enough, even without all the things that once surrounded them.

I’ve returned to writing, not for the same reasons as before. Not for recognition. Not for an audience. But for the little girl who used to spend every waking hour doing something she felt drawn to. And for a quiet promise I made to someone who still has a tab open, after all these years.

Writing these few paragraphs after so long feels like meeting an old friend. The air is filled with nostalgia, memories of who we used to be, and conversations that trip over old connections. I can’t quite move past the small talk just yet. It feels a little awkward—like I’m out of place. But I know spending time fixes everything. 

I want to be friends with writing again. Maybe we can find common ground, even with this version of me that has changed.
I hope we get to know each other again.

Maybe I can be a better friend this time, by not walking away.

Maybe, this time, we’ll become best friends.