At a young age, I had an obsession with infinities.

My father was the smartest person I knew, and he would sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night and sit with me in the backyard. He would explain the lunar eclipses, the rocket launches, and how no matter where we were, the sun would always rise in the same place. He explained to me that there was so much beyond what the either of us could understand: how space and time were infinite; how, when it came to them, nothing could be measured.

This unleashed an insatiable curiosity and anxiety in me that, eventually, no one could satisfy or soothe. What did it mean to live forever? What did it mean to die? And where was God in the midst of it all?

I remember so clearly laying with my mom every night, watching as the night light turned my room pink and green and yellow, and crying when she forgot to turn it on. The dark reminded me too much of what I didn’t know.

My childhood consisted of so much fear; fear of going to heaven and never seeing my mother, fear of that stupid recurring T-rex nightmare, and fear of my sister’s Johnny Depp poster. I was ruled by it. I think I slept in my parents bed for at least half of my childhood.

Then I learned to pray. After my mom turned on the night light, she would crawl into bed with me and pray the same two prayers every night. But even after she left, I would continue. Very simple prayers rooted in anxiety; taking comfort in the fact that if I prayed to Him, that He would help me live forever. This is how I found my solace.

At the age of 15, I believed no different. Still I prayed. But on a night in late March, my prayers shifted. Was I rhyming? Why did everything I was saying sound like verse? It sounded sweet. It sounded right to me. I got up and wrote my first poem down. That was the beginning.

I don’t really understand what it is about writing things down. I think that’s how it all began for me: the single act of writing it down. Whether in verse or not, I believe that there is nothing more intimate than visually and physically seeing your thoughts. This way you acknowledge them somehow; you organize them in a way that makes sense to you; you expose yourself in front of the paper and allow it, in a way, to watch you crack. Whether that be out of grief, or joy, or anger, or frustration, you make the page listen to you. You wring out the blood; you let it bind your wounds.

But it’s not over. Yes, through words you help yourself heal, but by sharing it, you also do the intimate act of healing someone else. Through your poem, or your story, or your art, you tell someone else “me too”; you reassure your reader that they aren’t alone in their suffering. That you too, feel deeply. And this is how you do your part. To bring ease into the world.

My friend, and poet, Jess, said it this way:

“When people aren't always available, at least I have my words.
There are times when I can't exactly explain how I feel, so I use poems to show people what I mean. This bridges the gaps of misunderstanding and generates empathy.
I find writing poems to be cathartic - the only way I can relieve myself of some pesky thoughts or feelings is to put them into poems. I feel lighter after having poured my heart into my line breaks.
Even reading other people's poems lets me know that other people get it. Strangers and friends alike know how I've felt and they can put it into words.”

So I’d encourage you, even if you think you’re a self-proclaimed crappy writer, to allow yourself to see the world through words. Give yourself permission to break, and give yourself permission to heal. Show the world that it’s okay to not be okay.