Writing as a Path to Personal Healing
How writing became a mirror, a compass, and a return toward wholeness.
“Put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around.”
— Stephen King, On Writing
You Don’t Have to Be a Writer to Let Writing Heal You
We tend to think clarity comes first. That before we can write, we need to understand.
But what if writing isn’t the result of understanding? What if it’s the way we find it?
And what if, in finding it, we discover something even deeper about ourselves?
I’ve been an avid reader for most of my life. In adolescence, I earned the nickname of “bookworm” from many. It was a label my friends used with both affection and teasing. Personally, I prefer “lectiophile.” It’s a lesser-known term from Latin, meaning one who loves reading. These days, most of my “reading” happens through my ears. I’m a dedicated listener and a full-fledged Audible addict. I could go on about my method for reading and why I love it (and I probably will, in another post). But for now, let’s come back to writing.
Despite all that reading, I never wrote much. Sure, I jotted notes in margins, copied down favorite quotes, and occasionally scribbled out a fleeting line of poetry that arrived in the shower or after meditation. But sitting down to write, to really write, didn’t begin in earnest until this year. And when it did, it felt like a dam broke. Thoughts rushed in faster than I could type them. Part of me wished that I could write all of the time. But I’m also a husband and a father of three, so writing needs to come in at least third priority, if not tied with reading.
Since recently leaving a 25-year career to pause and reflect, I’ve had people ask me if writing is now my new calling. “Oh, so you’re going to be a writer now, huh?”
I don’t know. Maybe. But honestly, I’m less interested in the noun and more interested in the verb. I’m not trying to be a writer. I’m simply enjoying the process of writing. Something about it feels essential.
For a long time, I believed I had to have something good to say before I could write. I needed to do thorough research and obtain credentials that justified what I had to say. I’ve stopped believing that myth recently. That kind of writing has its place, and I deeply respect it. I think deep research and thorough explanations by experts is wonderful. I’m just saying that it doesn’t need to hold anyone back from the process of writing.
I’ve also discovered that simply getting started on writing is often how I arrive at a better understanding of the topic. It always starts out rough, vague, incomplete. But as I return to the page, rereading, refining, reshaping — something begins to take form. Thoughts I didn’t realize I was carrying start making sense. Emotions I hadn’t named start revealing their shape. And slowly, a kind of clarity begins to emerge.
But clarity is only part of it.
The real surprise has been the psychological healing that writing brings. Not because it changes who I am, but because it helps me see who I’ve always been. Writing has shown me patterns, softened judgments, and surfaced parts of myself I didn’t know were still waiting to be acknowledged. Not in a performative way. Not for an audience. But just between me and the page.
And that’s the thing. This isn’t about becoming a better person, even though it might lead there. It’s about finding my wholeness. It’s about seeing all the parts of myself clearly enough to accept them. Even the ones buried under layers of fear, doubt, or childhood shame.
You don’t have to be a writer to experience that. You just have to be willing to write.
Because when you do, something quite profound begins to happen.
You realize there’s nothing to fix. Because you were never broken to begin with.
The Page as Mirror
Almost every great book on writing starts with the same two-word piece of advice: “Just write.”
It’s universal. Ubiquitous. And, at first, frustratingly vague.
Write what?
In what way?
And how will I know if it’s any good?
Even so, as incomplete as it seems, it’s essential.
Step one is always the same: just begin.
Natalie Goldberg, in her beautiful book Writing Down the Bones, puts it this way:
“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.”
Yes. That.
The reason “just write” matters is because it frees us from the trap of perfection. It invites us to show up as we are, lowering the stakes enough for honesty to walk in. But its deficiency is that it doesn’t tell us what we’ll find once we start. And maybe that’s the point.
Because the real invitation isn’t to write something good – it’s to get curious. To see what happens when you follow a thread of thought. To let your words drift toward something unexpected. To give form to what’s been sitting just under the surface, waiting to be seen.
When I write, I often begin with only a vague sense of a topic. Then I start typing. No editing, no deleting (unless it’s a typo). That’s the rule for the first pass. Every voice gets to stay. Even the hesitant ones. Even the ones that contradict each other. Because when I do that, when I allow everything to land on the page, something unexpected happens.
A flow opens. The intangible becomes tangible. The vague becomes visible. Ideas I didn’t even know that I had begin to emerge. And suddenly, what was once just a swirl of thoughts now has shape and texture and weight. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is. Not in a “woo-woo” kind of way, but in the most grounded, human sense. There’s something deeply alchemical about giving language to what was once only a thought.
And the more I let it all show up, both the comfortable and the uncomfortable, the polished and the raw – the more clearly I begin to see not only the topic, but myself. Not just as I think I am, but as I actually show up, in that moment. The blank page becomes a mirror. But not just a reflection of thoughts — a deeper echo of “self” that I didn’t know even existed.
When I write, all voices are welcome. Even the inner critic. Especially the inner critic.
The Inner Critic and the Inner Compass
For a long time, I feared my inner critic.
He can be brutal. He’s a bully, and honestly, he’s proud of it. But over time, I’ve come to see him a little differently.
He’s not trying to sabotage me. He’s trying to protect me. His job is to scan the future for embarrassment, failure, or exposure. And then to shut it down before it happens. It’s a form of care, in a strange way. And while his voice might be gruff, his intention is service.
So here’s the deal I’ve made with him while I write: He gets a voice, but he doesn’t get to delete.
Sometimes he chimes in while I’m writing and says,
“This is stupid.”
“No one cares.”
“This is embarrassing. Stop.”
But instead of stopping, or even deleting, I write that too.
Literally. I’ll type: “As I write this, my inner critic tells me not to. He finds it embarrassing.” And then, I keep going.
Write all of it.
Like the Japanese art of Kintsugi (repairing broken pottery with gold) the beauty doesn’t come from hiding the blemishes, but from revealing them. Sometimes, when you let your flaws show, something even more beautiful shines through.
Don’t worry. There’s time to edit later. As Stephen King reminds us, “To write is human, to edit is divine.” Right now, you get to be human.
Once it’s all on the page (contradictions, hesitations, and all), now comes the fun part. Deciphering.
This is where things get interesting. And sometimes a bit awkward.
Especially if I’ve written by hand (my handwriting during flow is... chaotic). Even when typed, the raw draft is often a swirling mess of half-thoughts, mashed metaphors, and broken sentences. Sometimes I read it back and think, “Did I write that? That’s actually kind of profound.” Other times, it’s more like, “What does that even mean? Is that a word?”
But if I stay curious, something begins to shift.
Patterns emerge. Connections form. It’s like solving a puzzle where the pieces are cut from your own thoughts. This is also where AI has become a fascinating tool for me.
Sometimes I’ll drop a messy block of writing into a prompt and ask: “Can you help me make sense of this? What’s the thesis? What are the emerging themes?”
And what comes back is often surprising. Sometimes it’s spot-on. Sometimes it misses. But even the misses are revealing. Because the moment I disagree, I know why. The objection sparks new clarity. I start writing again. I get closer to what I do mean.
That’s when something deeper starts to float to the surface. It’s a slow, magnetic pull. A pattern. A direction. A quiet knowing.
That’s the compass. Not loud. Not always obvious. But unmistakably there.
Writing is the excavation. Deciphering is the orientation.
And the inner critic? He’s not the enemy. He’s part of the chorus.
Not Broken, Just Buried
It’s all a mirror.
The writing. Reading my own words back. Seeing them summarized. Even the objections I feel while rereading. All of it reflects something back.
Together, they surface the many voices in my mind. Not just ideas, but personalities, parts, subtexts. And I try not to snuff any of them out. At this point, it’s no longer just about clarity. It’s about compassion.
Writing gives space to the parts of me that don’t usually get a voice. The ones that get pushed aside by daily responsibilities, distractions, or the need to keep moving forward. This is the moment where they get to speak. Where they get to be seen.
Even the parts of me that feel shame. Or anxiety. Or fear. They all get a seat on the page.
And in allowing all of them to exist in the same space, something powerful takes place.
Not agreement.
Not resolution.
But tension.
And in that tension, something raw and honest comes through.
We’re never just one thought or one emotion. We’re a constellation of contradictory and often absurd patterns, interwoven, out of sync, and totally human. It’s almost funny to realize that all these swirling paradoxes of emotional baggage and contradictory thoughts are just electrical impulses firing between synapses. Energy in the brain. Or so the materialist voice inside tells me. Lately, I’ve even started questioning that voice.
Whatever we really are, we humans are not simple creatures. But there’s a beauty buried in that complexity. And the page helps unearth the gentle truth that we are not broken.
We might be fragmented, misunderstood, or silenced by culture, by expectation, or the by our own efforts to fit into a world too small to hold all of who we are.
But complex does not mean broken.
You were never broken. Ever.
Writing shows us that.
Because when we sit long enough to really listen, without flinching, without fixing, we begin to gather the fragments. We begin to make space for reintegration.
We begin to welcome ourselves home.
An Invitation to Hold the Complexity
What’s even more beautiful than clarity is realizing that nothing needs to be resolved. Not every contradiction needs solving. Not every paradox needs resolution.
Writing gives you permission to feel two things at once. Grief and gratitude. Love and fear. Hope and hesitation. You can hold both. And you do.
The page makes space for all of it. Sometimes even in the same sentence.
That’s what makes it so revealing – it doesn’t filter. It reflects. Paradoxes become portals. Portals into feelings we didn’t know we had, or weren’t ready to admit. It’s in that complexity, not in spite of it, that something honest emerges.
And, it starts before we ever put a word on the page. It starts even when the page is blank.
There’s something quite powerful about an empty page.
As David Whyte says:
“There is so much potential in a blank page.”
And yes, sometimes we’re afraid to ruin that potential by filling it.
But the blank page calls anyway.
And you must answer. Fill it. Not perfectly. Not completely. Just truthfully.
Let the words come, even if they contradict.
Let them unravel what you didn’t know you were carrying.
And when you do, you might find something unexpected.
You might find a version of yourself you’ve been wanting to meet all your life.
Soul-sent and soul-felt. This is the stuff. I’m so here for this journey.
What a balm for the soul, Glenn. I’ve come to enjoy listening to your audio as I read along. Your voice adds a special dimension to these pieces.
Fellow “lectiophile” and audible enthusiast here. One gem I’m holding close is that I don’t have to have it all figured out before I sit down to write—the act of writing itself has a way of bringing forth what’s murky or amorphous in my head. Funny thing is I *know* this but still get hung up (often) on needing a complete thesis before letting the writing process work its magic.
So… thank you. I wonder if one day I’ll hear your voice narrating a book on Audible 😉