Confessions of an Unwritten Week

It’s been six days since I wrote. Six days, and it feels like something essential has fallen silent. Usually, writing is my refuge, a place to unpack the mess, to let my words shape what my heart struggles to say. But these past days, I haven’t been able to bring myself to face the blank page.

The truth is, I don’t know if I’m afraid of what will come out, or if there’s just nothing left to say. It’s a strange emptiness, almost like I’ve been drained of words, of stories, of the little confessions that usually spill so freely from me. I keep waiting for that familiar pull, the urge to put pen to paper, but it hasn’t come. And I wonder, am I losing my way? Or am I just afraid of what will come up when I finally sit down and let myself feel it all?

Maybe part of me is scared of the honesty that writing demands. Words have a way of exposing you, even to yourself, and I’m not sure I want to confront all that’s been simmering beneath the surface lately. It’s easier to stay silent, to pretend that everything is fine, to fill the days with distractions rather than face what’s been weighing on me.

And yet, there’s something oddly comforting in this pause. In not writing, I’ve had to sit with my thoughts, unfiltered, unshaped, raw. It’s messy, and it’s heavy, but it’s real. There’s no editing here, no polished endings or carefully constructed sentences—just me, and the parts of myself that I usually keep hidden.

So, here I am, confessing to this quiet, this avoidance, this strange place where words have eluded me. Maybe this pause is what I needed, a reminder that sometimes it’s okay to just be with everything as it is, without trying to make sense of it. Six days without writing, and maybe tomorrow will be the seventh. But for now, I’m here, breathing in the silence and trusting that the words will find their way back when they are ready.

Have a nice weekend