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You know how sometimes, you pull out an old jacket from your cupboard, one that you haven’t worn in a while, and slip it on? You’re surprised at how comfortably it rests across your shoulders, or you find money you forgot about in the pocket, or maybe you remember why you loved it in the first place. The act of rediscovering something you’ve forgotten about seems to carry a hint of magic.

Writing is like that for me. Whenever I write, it’s like I’m getting reacquainted with myself, shining a light into all the nooks and crannies of my soul. I have come to the realisation that writing is part of who I am, and that it makes me happy to see a page filling up with words, to create something new, to present these efforts to others as a gift of our shared experience.

To be honest, it’s been a while since I wrote anything other than grocery lists or to-do lists, both of which included the word “sanitizer” much more than I had ever thought possible. It would be easy to blame 2020 – we’ve all seen the memes, after all. I suppose this year has contributed, to some extent, to my silence. Whatever I wrote felt contrived and far-removed from the realities so many people were facing.

So, why write now? The circumstances in the world haven’t changed. All the excuses I had not to write are still there. What has changed is that these past few weeks, there’s been an insistent whisper, signs from everywhere, reminding me what I love to do. I fully believe this now: I owe it to myself to write. It’s not even the only thing I need to do, but it is something I have to do. It’s a non-negotiable. I can see it like a golden thread, woven through my life. I owe it to the little girl who loved books ferociously and dreamed of writing her own book one day, spending hours making up stories and writing them down. I owe it to the teenager who dreamed of being a magazine editor. I owe it to the part of me that tells stories to my friends’ children, wanting them to experience the magic of the world of words, even for a fleeting moment. I owe it to the people who love me, who see these parts of me and celebrate them.

We all have the thing we owe ourselves, and I tend to believe that these things rarely have to do with tax returns or buying groceries. Somewhere inside of us, we have something that makes our soul jump around and splash in puddles and play. This happens when we get real and messy, when we sing and sew and dance and cook, when we help others and build things and dream big. It happens when we do the thing we’ve always loved, but let go of because it wasn’t practical. It happens when we do the thing we want to do when we’re retired. I have seen too many people miss out on that promised old age, this year more than ever. So, I’ll be allowing my soul to play this year. Will you be doing the same?