My dad used to say it all the time.
“Write it down.”
Ideas, worries, prayers, hopes—whatever it was—his answer was always the same.
“Write it down.”
And I did.
Sometimes in bits and pieces. Sometimes in one breathless sitting. And in his passing, I kept writing. I wrote what I saw. I wrote what I felt. I wrote what I couldn’t say out loud. I wrote because the words made the silence bearable. Now I sit here surrounded by stories, reflections, and books—some finished, some not. At first, it felt like too much. The weight of it all. The deadlines I never set. The pressure I never asked for.
But then I remembered— I don’t have to do it all at once. I can take it one word, one thought, one book at a time. So I’ll keep writing. I’ll write because it helps me breathe. I’ll write because it helps others feel less alone. I’ll write because that’s what he taught me to do. And when people say, “write what you know,”—I smile. Because I know what grief feels like. I know what starting over feels like. I know the weight of dreams that still haven’t come to life.
I know the strength it takes to keep building in the quiet. So I’ll write what I know. And I’ll write for the ones still carrying what they haven’t said out loud yet. Your words matter, too. And when the weight feels like too much—
Just write it down.
