For as much of my life as I can remember, I called myself a writer. Journalism was a big part of who I was for a long time, but the last time I published a piece of writing was two and a half years ago. What happened?

Honestly, there wasn’t a single moment to blame, no big decision or choice I had to make, my life just kept changing and so did my priorities. Writing got put to the back of the shelf, and every time I tried to brush the dust off I found I’d lost my way.

Some of the things I’d spent years passionately writing about just weren’t my focus anymore. At one time I was a music journalist, but a dislocated kneecap put a hold on shows. I turned to chronic illness and mental health advocacy, but reached a point where I needed some distance. Intersectional feminism was a hot-topic, but the political landscape surrounding it became too overwhelming to be actively involved in. I went from being a new graduate eager to add my voice to many conversations, to a wife and step-mum finding my way in a new life. My focus shifted and while life was moving forward, writing kept getting left behind.

Skip ahead to the first day of 2018 and I physically and mentally hit a brick wall with my health. I kept hoping it was a flare that would pass but things just kept getting worse. Not only were old conditions hitting back with full force, but a new diagnosis joined the club and left me with a lot of questions.

That’s what brings us here, contemplating my own identities and trying to determine how to get back on track. My interests and abilities may have changed over time, but my love for writing never left. So starting now, this is a promise to myself to start writing again – even if it’s without purpose or publicity, even if its just for me.

The next chapter starts here.