Writing through fear

Embracing the responsibility of words

Writing and I have always had a complicated, love-hate kind of relationship. I’m both a procrastinator and a perfectionist, constantly caught between the urge to pour my thoughts out in a single sitting and the compulsion to revise every word until it feels just right, obsessively. Adding to the challenge, I write in my second language, which probably doesn’t make things any easier.

I’ve always written, though. As a kid, it was fiction that sparked my imagination, but growing up, my focus shifted to personal non-fiction. Raw, reflective, and unapologetically honest writing. Ironically, I started writing because words often failed me in speech. Writing gave me the time and space to say what I couldn’t articulate out loud. On the page, there’s no rush; you can backspace, rephrase, and try again until it feels absolutely right. The page is patient.

And yet, I have a hard time taking myself seriously as a writer. Writing is hard. In my idealised fantasy of what being a writer looks like, I imagine myself writing every day, swept up by some superior creative force, effortlessly producing pages of content. The reality couldn’t be further from that. Most days, I struggle with motivation. Writing is a real effort, one I have to commit to intentionally. So why do I do it?

First of all, I write because I don’t like talking about myself. It's as simple as that. Talking about myself has always terrified me. To this day, I’m the friend who listens more than I speak. It’s not generosity; it’s fear. Fear of being seen for who I am, or worse, fear of being misunderstood or judged. Like anyone else, I want to be seen, loved, and understood, but the vulnerability of sharing myself in conversation feels overwhelming. Writing offers a safety net. I can carefully choose what to expose and what to withhold. Writing is my protection and armour, a safer way to express myself.

Like most writers, I also write to make sense of painful experiences. Writing has helped me articulate and process things I couldn’t otherwise talk about. When I wrote about my experience of grooming, it was a way of working through something deeply personal and difficult. While that piece is no longer public, the act of writing it gave me clarity and perhaps even closure, in some ways.

Another reason I write is to foster connection. Far from being a catchphrase, sharing our struggles helps us feel less alone. In 2021, I started writing about my depression and suicidal ideation, and the response felt like a warm hug. People reached out to me with gratitude for my honesty and vulnerability. I realised that while I could never discuss these topics as openly in conversation, writing allowed me to share them fully. I know it sounds cheesy, but if my writing can make even just one person feel less alone, then it’s worth every ounce of effort.

But as I said, writing isn’t without its challenges. One of the most difficult aspects for me is the permanence of words. Unlike speech, which fades and can be forgiven or forgotten, writing carries a different weight. It feels immutable, etched into the Internet. As someone who is very fluid, who changes their mind often (despite being a Scorpio), and with a fluctuating sense of self, the permanence of writing can be terrifying. Writing requires responsibility, and that responsibility sometimes scares me.

Taking myself seriously as a writer, a goal I’m setting for 2025, means embracing that responsibility. Resisting the urge to take down my writing when self-doubt creeps in. Trusting my words to stay, even if they are misunderstood, even when they inevitably no longer reflect who I am. Allowing my writing to be available to others who might still resonate with it.

Writing is both my armour and my offering. It protects me while simultaneously exposing me. It helps me process my inner world and bridges the gap between my desire for and fear of connection. In 2025, I want to embrace the full weight of being a writer. Not just the creative freedom of it but also the responsibility it carries. Writing is not just about crafting words; it’s about having the courage to let them live in the world.