Seriously, I mean it.

There’s something magical about your first love, something unforgettable. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the uniqueness of firsts. No matter how many times you experience something afterward, you always remember that first time. The way it made you feel. The way it changed you.

For as long as I can remember, writing has felt as natural as the tide meeting the shore, as effortless as breathing. I wasn’t very good at expressing myself out loud, but when I let them out on paper, they truly came ALIVE. It was absolutely euphoric, like my deepest thoughts finally had somewhere to go, and someone to listen.

Words were my first love. Before I even understood what it meant to love a person, I was already in love with books. I lived for the way words leapt off the pages of a book. The way they danced, swirled, and soared through my imagination like leaves caught in a playful breeze. Each word brushing colour onto the canvas of my mind, each sentence more vivid than the last, whole worlds reconstructing from ink and paper. Reading felt like discovering time travel. No machines, no flashing lights or special effects, just words, and somehow, they’re enough.

Writing professionally for a couple of years kind of dimmed that spark. I became so focused on deadlines, formats, and client expectations that I stopped writing for myself altogether. I didn’t read as much anymore, either. What used to be my escape slowly started to feel like a chore. It went from something I did purely for love to something I overanalysed, too concerned with making it sound precise, polished, perfect. I found myself chasing perfection instead of passion. And in that pursuit, somewhere in the process, I lost that raw, honest connection that made writing feel like breathing in the first place.

Lately though, a voice inside keeps nudging me:

“Remember how much you loved this? Remember why you started writing? Remember this too, is a gift?”

Your words are a gift.

Your thoughts are a gift.

Your voice is a gift.

And gifts aren’t meant to be hidden. God doesn’t give us gifts just for us to keep them to ourselves. Gifts are meant to be shared and enjoyed, to be given life outside of ourselves.

Admittedly, there’s a part of me that’s been reluctantly holding back. There’s a certain vulnerability in letting others read what was born in solitude, and the thought of exposing that vulnerability has always felt daunting. My writing has long been personal to me, so putting it out into the world feels like leaving the light on in a room I’ve always kept in the dark. There’s a safety in keeping things to yourself. But at the same time, there’s a quiet longing for connection, for someone to read and understand, even just a fragment of it. I’ve come to realise the journey back to your first love is a journey back to yourself. So here I am, starting anyway and taking that first step. Because maybe, just maybe, our first love is still waiting for us.

Deciding to write again is no longer about getting it perfect or being seen. It’s a quiet return to the page, for the love of the words themselves. It’s about rediscovering myself. It’s about remembering what it was like to write without the weight of judgment, and reconnecting with the part of me that once believed in endless possibilities.

What will happen if I finally finish my writings? What magic will unfold if I share this gift?

It’s about allowing myself to enjoy the journey rather than being so focused on the destination. It’s about allowing myself to experiment, make mistakes, and embrace the beauty of raw, unfiltered creativity.

As we grow, we slowly lose parts of ourselves, and we make room for new ones. We let society shape our identities, molding us into versions of ourselves that fit into boxes it’s already built for us. Over time, we forget the passions and dreams that once defined us, exchanging them for expectations that weren’t always our own.

Maybe you have something like that too. Something you used to love. Something that made you feel alive before life got in the way. Maybe it was painting, playing an instrument, dancing, singing just for the joy of it, or writing stories that only you ever read. Whatever it is, maybe it’s time to go back to it. Write the story. Paint the picture. Pick up the instrument. Dance in your living room. Allow yourself to express, to heal, and to ignite the creative spark that lives in all of us.

Our first loves, no matter how simple they might have seemed at the time, hold the power to remind us of who we truly are.

If this resonated with you, hit reply and tell me, what’s your first love? And what’s stopping you from going back to it?

Remember we don’t need to be perfect, we just need to start.