healing through words

Healing Through Words: Why I Came Back to Writing

There was a moment not long ago when I nearly gave it all up.

I deleted my blog. I deleted my social media accounts. I deleted all the posts I wrote last year, in the thick of cancer treatment, the raw unfiltered thoughts and emotions. I had been sharing parts of myself that I usually kept hidden, quiet corners of pain, raw thoughts about cancer, fear, identity, motherhood, grief, and the aching vulnerability that comes with rebuilding your life after it’s been shattered.

At first, writing about my experience felt like survival. I used words to anchor myself in a time of overwhelming change. I knew I was going through a pivotal moment in my life, and absolutely had to document it. But slowly, that sense of safety began to slip. Doubt crept in.

What was I doing? Why was I sharing so much? Who was I to think that anyone wanted to read my thoughts? That uneasy feeling grew into a voice that whispered cruelly: You’re being self-indulgent. It’s all just extreme vanity. Just another voice in a realm already overflowing with voices. A saturated market. A void echoing back silence.

That voice won. I shut it all down.

I told myself it was healthy. That it was good to reclaim my privacy. That I could still write quietly, for myself. But I didn’t. The words stopped coming. I had silenced myself, and for a while, it seemed permanent. Then something unexpected happened.

I came across the news that Andrea Gibson – an American poet whose name I vaguely remembered – had died from ovarian cancer. I clicked on the article, unsure why. Maybe it was the cancer connection. Maybe it was the word poet. I don’t know. But I kept reading. I found a few of their poems. Then more. Then I went looking for interviews, performances, anything I could find.

Andrea’s words carved through me like a knife. They were fearless. Honest. Fierce and tender at the same time. I read their poetry and wept. Not just because of their death – though that grief was real – but because their words stirred something in me I thought I had lost. Their words reminded me why I ever started writing in the first place.

Words matter.

They matter more than we can ever truly know. They make us feel less alone. They hold space for pain, for beauty, for hope. They bridge the distances between us. They remind us we are not the only ones navigating the dark.

In Andrea’s poetry, I saw a soul laid bare without apology. Not perfectly polished. Not always safe. But real. Human. I saw the kind of courage I had lost in myself. And through that, I felt a flicker of something I thought had gone out for good: the desire to write again. Not for followers. Not for algorithms. Not for “likes” or praise or publication.

But to feel. To make sense of the mess. To hold a moment still and say, Here. This is real. This happened. I was here. To make someone else, somewhere, feel a little less alone.

Because that is what Andrea’s poetry did for me. It made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for being cracked open by this life. Like there was beauty in telling the truth, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

And I realised: I don’t want to write perfectly polished essays about healing. I want to write about what it really feels like. The uncertainty. The shame. The ache of disappearing into motherhood. The body I no longer recognise. The fear that maybe I’ve peaked already. That cancer took more from me than I let on.

I want to write the parts of the story that I tried to delete.

Because that’s the part of healing we rarely talk about – the back-and-forth, the relapses, the doubts. Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a spiral. It’s letting yourself start over, again and again. It’s forgiving yourself for shutting down. It’s picking up the pen after months of silence and whispering, Okay, let’s try again.

When I deleted my blog and social media, it felt like shutting a door. Now I understand it was a pause. A moment of recalibration. A deep inhale before stepping forward again.

And if you’ve ever felt that way – overwhelmed by your own voice, afraid of what people might think, tempted to go quiet – I want you to know: I see you. I’ve been there. And maybe you, like me, are just waiting for a sign that it’s okay to begin again.

This is your sign. Start small. Write a sentence. A word. A feeling. Let it be ugly. Let it be raw. Let it be true. Because there is power in truth. There is healing in naming what hurts. There is connection in saying the thing that everyone else is too scared to admit out loud.

I thought writing was making me weak – too open, too emotional, too vulnerable. But I was wrong. Writing is what gave me strength. It helped me name the monster. It helped me remember that even in my darkest days, I could still make something beautiful. Something real. Something true.

I think of Andrea Gibson and the gift they gave me, someone they never knew. A stranger crying over poems at midnight, held together by syllables and shared pain. That’s the thing about words. You never know where they’ll land. You never know who they’ll reach. You don’t have to be famous or published or polished to make an impact. You just have to be honest. Brave enough to show up with your truth, even when your voice shakes.

So I’m back. I’m writing again – not with the certainty that I have something important to say, but with the knowledge that writing is how I survive. It’s how I connect. It’s how I heal. It’s how I give others permission to do the same.

And maybe that’s enough.

If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, or you’re afraid to share your story, or you feel like your voice doesn’t matter – please know this: it does. Even if only one person reads your words and feels seen, that is enough. Even if you are the only one who reads them, that is still enough.

You are not too much. You are not too vulnerable. You are not too late. Your story matters. Your voice matters. And if you need a reason to begin again, let this be it. We write to feel. We write to make others feel. We write to remember, to rage, to rejoice, to rebuild. We write because there is something sacred in telling the truth.

Andrea Gibson reminded me of that. Their legacy is more than poetry – it’s courage. It’s honesty. It’s the sacred act of baring your soul in a world that so often tells us to stay quiet. So this is my return. Not loud. Not flashy. Just a whisper in the dark saying, I’m here. I’m trying again. And maybe you can too.

Let’s keep writing. Let’s keep feeling. Let’s keep finding each other in the words.

Love, Michelle