If I had to pinpoint an exact moment when writing became an extension of self, it would be after my father’s death. I had written before, I wish I could remember when it really began, but even at 8 or 9, or perhaps younger, I was scribbling odd content across paper. I remember how excited my third-grade teacher had been at some of the pieces I had written, and I found that I really liked the feeling of someone else enjoying what I wrote. Though that enjoyment would morph over time. 

After my father’s horrible and abrupt death, writing became something necessary. I remember a friend of his, who would later become my first real mentor, telling my grandparents that I needed to see a therapist. As I overheard the conversation, I can’t recall now whether I understood what that really meant. Not that it would have mattered then, and especially not now. My grandparents, being who they were and from whence they came, were adamantly against it. “We can deal with it.” But, as things often go, nothing was ever really handled. This left me years of a mess to wade through and clean up on my own. But that’s a tale for another time. 

She must have known they were set in their ways and did what she could for me. She gifted me a journal. Such a nothing exchange, really. Just a book with pages and pages of lines. I still have that book to this day. An ornate angel, maybe the Archangel Michael, I’m not exactly sure. Red inner cover and gold trim. The pages, still empty. I never wrote in the book. Not a single dot or line or word. There was something about it. This special space that deserved nothing less than an otherworldly message, and no matter how many times I have picked that book up over the years, I just couldn’t find from within me what was meant to exist in it. 

Not because of the angel, or the gold, but because of the meaning it’s held beyond appearances. Anyone might see the journal in my home, and open it. They might read the note she wrote in her beautiful cursive. They might recognize that the note was not recent, but that book looks brand new to this day. The corners have not been worn down, the colors have not faded. It is untouched. From time to time, I have gone back to it. It sits with all my other journals tucked away in a drawer in my bedroom. Those journals, however, are quite different. Covers falling off, scratches, markings, words upon words. The first journal I kept, aside from the angel, was from 2000. I’ve written before about how the one belonging that made it with me through my chaotic early days was my journals. They were always the first thing I grabbed, no matter where I was running to or from. 

Her gift, was more than a book of lined pages, it was healing, it was a deep belief in me. Even at that young age, she saw not only pain, but purpose. Over the years, I was lucky enough to stay closer to her. Some years would go by with few to no conversations, especially when I was fighting to survive the legacy I had been left. Others we spoke with regularity. Once, when I visited and was spending time with her, we were driving back from NYC. She was telling me that I could write lyrics for singers, that there was this harmony to a lot of the things that I wrote. She couldn’t believe how quickly words flowed from me. She would give me a topic, and in moments, I would have something… maybe not always perfect, but readable, relatable. Often, lyrical.

I wish I could have explained it, and even at this age, it is hard to grasp, but the words are more than simply letters strung together. They are feelings welled deep within. Sometimes they linger, sometimes they hibernate, and sometimes they become volatile. If I don’t let them out, they work against me. Reminding me that I have never been in charge of them. They are all that I am, and I serve their needs, nothing else. If I don’t let them out, like a pressure release, I feel less. I am less me, less vibrant, less a person. And when I finally make the time or space, they remind me, sometimes gently, sometimes less so, that I have but one real use… to process and print them.

That angel-adorned cover was my permission. It was my door to use the words that had always been inside me, to find a safe way to heal. I could write, anything and everything. I could read through my words. I could navigate myself in a way I would not be allowed with another human, and definitely not a professional. That journal was my only option, but it became more than an option. It was symbolic. 

I’m not sure if I will ever find the words worthy of filling those pages, and I’ve come to terms with that. They should be meaningful, encapsulating all the life that book allowed me to live and if I cannot find something suitable, then it will remain empty. Another journal, of many in my home, but the meaning it holds will be unimaginable to the unknowing eye. 

We are all, in need of true belief that we can become more than our circumstances. Sometimes it’s the simplest gifts that hold the deepest value across our lives. I hope you can have something like I have been blessed to have, but we should all be doing what we can to show others the value they all hold, too. Because sadly, more times than not, we cannot see value in ourselves, and it takes someone we can look up to to open the door that allows us to do so.

To Joan, you saw more in me than anyone did from the very beginning. From before the beginning.