This article was originally published on August 20, 2013. It has been rewritten and updated for clarity, style, and relevance.
When Writing Feels Small Beside Big Dreams
Last night before bed, I found myself reflecting on writing—and why I still do it.
Earlier this week, I attended an event filled with passionate people. There were photographers, surfers, cyclists, entrepreneurs, and travel junkies. Their hobbies sounded bold, adventurous, and photogenic. And then there was me—a writer.
Unless the person I’m talking to loves books, writing often feels… well, less exciting. I caught myself wondering if I only chose this path because it was what I could afford. If I had the time and resources, maybe I’d be biking across provinces or chasing waves, too.
Maybe I’d be just as good—because honestly, I believe I could be.
But writing? Writing is what I stayed with.It’s not loud. It doesn’t always look impressive from the outside. But it’s the path I know.
And for what it’s worth, it was the choice of J.K. Rowling. Of Tolkien. Of Paulo Coelho. Writers whose words reached the world— but who, in the beginning, only needed a few to believe in them.
A Quiet Kind of Power
Maybe writing started as my escape.
As a child, I traveled through words before I could afford plane tickets.
I imagined people I wished existed. I created characters with powers, dreams, and names.
When I couldn’t explore gymnastics, or modeling, or swimming—I stayed home and learned.
I learned to write songs.
To cook.
To draw.
To play music.
Those were my tools. My homegrown magic.
And not every outgoing person learns to hold still long enough to create that.
Even When No One’s Watching
After all those thoughts—about writing and whether I was made for it—
I still wrote.
I always do.
Even when I doubt, even when no one’s listening.
When inspiration shows up and I have no audience to share it with,
I open my notebook.
Now it’s my laptop.
My fingertips become my voice.
And when I finish, there’s peace.
When even one person reads and resonates—
I know it was worth it.
Because maybe I was never writing for the crowd.
Maybe I was just writing for the one who needed it most.
Even if sometimes…
that one person is me.
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