Homecoming.

Of course, I am not a trained writer. Oh, just let me ask myself when this notion of being a writer got ingrained in me that being a writer is to be proficient or recognized. When I would write years ago, none of what I wrote was either professional or widely acclaimed. But it was my voice. I believed that talking about myself and putting my voice out there was the right thing to do. There were times I sat all night just contemplating and then there would be a sudden gush of energy that wouldn’t let me sleep until I put it down. I spoke about my scars, my feelings, and my vulnerabilities without any apprehensions or fear of being judged. I was fierce when it came to expressing myself. Why did my voice stop mattering anymore? Why did I fail to acknowledge everything I wanted to say, to myself, to the world?

Writing about anything that I felt like was the only thing that connected me to myself and to the world. However, over the past couple of years, I lost my home within me. Even though I wrote a few articles and papers as assignments, it wasn’t anymore on a personal level. I tried writing about my personal experiences but I couldn’t feel the way I would before. I wrote not because I was a good writer but because that is when I felt alive. I did not feel alive anymore while writing. What changed?

I’ve made mistakes. I made wrong decisions and choices. Then you have to deal and cope with them. Trust me, dear, identifying your coping mechanisms is vital. I did not realize that my ways of coping mechanisms were only bringing more problems and I only did more mistakes. As many mistakes as your whole life would go upside down and you don’t really know who you are anymore. Because all I identified myself with are the wrong choices and decisions I made. As I faltered too many times, I clearly forgot who I am and lost touch with what I love.

I tried to write to feel connected with myself again. I failed terribly. When I read out what I wrote, it was bland and superficial without any essence. I asked a friend to read it and tell me how it was. He had the same view as mine. That is when I took a long pause from writing. If there were any thoughts I would just make a note on Google Keep and never went back to them, as what I loved doing the most did not seem to exist anymore. It was like I lost a dear friend who I would go to for solace. There was so much void that I did not know how to fill let alone write.

I lost my way. I lost my voice. I lost myself. The worst that could ever imagine happening to me had materialized. I was sabotaging myself with the coping mechanisms that were brutally dangerous for me. I knew that something was seriously going wrong and wanted to know why it was the way it was. Until one day, one day that it hit me hard, so hard in my gut, I did not even come close to finding answers. I started to look back and figure out what went wrong. But this time, I was chasing for answers. Finding the answers wasn’t easy. I had to falter over and over, take chances to find the answers to the questions I was chasing.

In December 2020, I went to Udaipur to find some peace soon after the moment that it hit me hard. I stayed in Udaipur for over a week. I would go for walks, try new food, attend online classes, do projects, go shopping, mostly spend time with myself. I fell in love with Udaipur the very first time I visited just a year before this visit. On the last day of my trip, I went to Ambrai Ghat to watch the sunset which I missed on the previous visit. I was standing there watching the sunset on the right and the old city building coming to life in the golden hour on the left. I was just enjoying the moment, seeing people on the boats, an old man sitting on the staircase very close to me, and the Taj in the middle of the Pichola lake. That is when I picked the journal — which I had not used in a long time — out of the bag that I was carrying to write about what I was observing and weave a story in class around that. I sat there contemplating and writing for over an hour. When I closed the journal, I felt reunited with myself again.

I did falter even after that. However, I was more aware of what was happening, how I was responding to events around me, and what I was doing. I was scared to confront what I was feeling and acknowledge that my attitude was changing. I was afraid of what I’d have had to face in this quest. and wondered whether I’d be able to embrace answers I would confront. It was then that I had to move to Delhi. It seemed like a good opportunity to give myself a second chance while also pursuing the questions I had. I made sure I confronted my emotions, was more aware of my thoughts, and was more vigilant of the decisions I was making. Guess what? I also started journaling, not as a task but whenever I felt like writing. Surprisingly, I felt that connection with writing again which I thought I lost forever. I knew I was in the right direction. I was healing with my changing attitude, new experiences, especially because of how I was taking care of myself. Journaling helped me to keep track of these changes and enabled me to recognize and appreciate myself. This time, the old friend, writing, visited to help me build myself up again. The old friend believed in me. That is it. I started finding my way, voice, and myself.

None of the people that I met in the last few years know about my love and connection with writing. I met authors, academicians, and passionate writers but I stood there just listening to them. Because it has been a long time since I was actually published my writing. Even if I did it was just about the observation or was research-oriented. Sometimes, I laugh at the stuff that I uploaded on my blog and sometimes I am impressed with myself reading things I wrote in my journal. It makes me feel both stupid and surprised. However, I did not put up any posts or publish them. Only my Google Keep, the journal with the brown cover and now UpNote knows the stories I wanted to tell myself and the world. Why?

One, I met amazing writers, read great content and books which made me question myself. I wrote about my experiences, emotions, and thoughts around what I observed around me and just put the contemplations out there in my writings. I said to myself, “What is it? Is it even writing? People out there are writing amazing shit.” So, I just kept everything I wrote, private. Two, I was no more comfortable sharing my personal experiences or thoughts as it made me feel vulnerable.

Lately, I have been talking a lot. Not a chit-chat. I was talking about all the things I wanted to write about, contemplating, and reflecting on started overflowing from my mouth. I was becoming a little embarrassed with this peculiar new habit. I did not know how to shut myself up. Subsequently, I met people who appreciated what I wrote and told me I should keep pursuing it. I told myself, “ Oh come on, I did not believe them. What am I compared to all those amazing writers around? I can’t even call myself a writer. Umm… I just enjoy writing, maybe?”

Soon after, I met a woman aged 21 who had known me for a long time but I did not. She introduced herself to me and shared all the things she knew about me which she learned through a mutual friend. As we were conversing, she mentioned my old blog. Ouch, it pained. She told me that she read them, loved them, and that she looked up to me. She shared that she too writes and that she is about to finish her first writing project. It took me a couple of days to process the fact that someone still remembers me for what I wrote, however trivial things my writing was about. I looked back again.

I was not sure of why I thought lowly of myself. I did not attend a fancy school where writing or reading is romanticized or have any person in my circle and family who were into writing. I believed that these are prerequisites to be a writer. Writing just happened to me when I attended the knock on my heart. This would not qualify you to be a writer right? Thinking through helped me identify why I write in the first place. To connect with me and to find my voice. I then realized that it doesn’t matter if it is about something trivial. It doesn’t matter if it is not the kind of content a writer is supposed to write or a mainstream way to call oneself a writer. It is my way and it doesn’t have to be labeled. I also questioned myself, a person like myself who was fierce in expressing my own voice, views, opinions, experiences, and vulnerabilities no more had the courage to do so. There are no good reasons apart from being judged or fear of people calling it shit. However, I realized that I write for myself and that it is an interface that connects my inside world to the outside. I thought that I shouldn’t stop being myself or live a life that is superficial because I am afraid of being judged or things I write labeled as shit. There is no right or wrong way. All that matters is being authentic and not pretending to be something/someone else.

I am tired now. Tired of rehearsing the stories I wanted to say to myself staring at a blank wall or sitting in the bathroom. I now believe that it is better to be fierce than to be dead inside. Today, when I walked out of the bathroom after long monologues, I decided I should pen down things soon. I finished my work, closed the laptop, and almost called it a day. But then I heard a knock. A knock that kicked in from inside of the heart. Here I am on my bed with the laptop right in front of me, typing down this story.

I was recently sharing with a friend how I felt like I found myself where I lost myself in the first place and how it seemed like life goes in circles or just meanders to let you find answers. I felt like I came to the same point where all the trouble began. But this time, I had answers and a sense of understanding. I no longer felt stagnant or stuck. I am not referring to it just specific to writing but multiple facets of my life. She then shared that she recently came across a quote by Barry H. Gillespie, which states that you continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths. It touched me. It put my feelings into words.

We have all lost some pieces of ourselves on the way. Life gives us a second chance to pick them up. We have all made mistakes that you’d not be able to forgive yourself for. The best decision I ever made was to give myself a second chance, rework, pick myself up when I plunge, and promise myself that I would never let myself down again. I am glad it all made sense in the end, or rather I’d call it a new beginning. It feels like a homecoming since I started writing again. This time I am not going to ever let go of it.