Why I write

If you’ve ever caught yourself scribbling random lines on scraps of paper, napkins, or the back of receipts, then you’ll know where I’m coming from. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been writing. Sometimes it was how I saw the world, other times it was conversations between characters who, until that very moment, didn’t even exist. Does that make me a little crazy? Maybe. But honestly—if this is what crazy feels like, sign me up for the funny farm, because I love it.

I was always “the creative one” at school. Creative writing competitions? Certificates? Praise from teachers? That was me. But then life took a left turn—sports. Netball, to be precise. My afternoons, weekends, and holidays were suddenly filled with training sessions, tournaments, and the sheer thrill of being part of a team. Writing quietly slid into the backseat. I told myself it wasn’t as “cool” as being an athlete, and honestly, I loved sport so much that I barely noticed the absence.

Fast forward twenty years (yes, TWENTY—excuse me while I go lie down and process that). Two ruptured ACLs later and, just like that, the part of me that had always been “the sporty one” disappeared. My identity felt fractured. I had lost something I was good at—something I thought I’d always have.

It wasn’t as simple as dusting off a notebook and picking up where I left off. Writing again felt awkward at first, like bumping into an old friend and not knowing if you still click. But slowly, it came back. The words, the characters, the imaginary conversations that made me laugh out loud while people on public transport side-eyed me—yep, they all returned. And thank goodness they did.

Try and stop me now

Now, writing feels less like a hobby and more like a lifeline. It’s where I explore, escape, and—honestly—where I get to just be unapologetically me. I may not run around a netball court anymore, but I can run wild on the page.

So, why do I write? Because I need to. Because it’s fun. Because my brain would actually combust if I didn’t.

And because once upon a time, I almost let it go—and I’m not making that mistake twice.