I tell myself that this writing journey is new for me. Certainly, sharing it publicly is. Sharing it with anyone really. When I began writing and posting on Instagram in November 2021, it was a spontaneous form of self-expression. But there was also an absolute need or compulsion to share my feelings and thoughts through words.

I think, I write, I share. This became my process. There was no (or very little!) editing. There was no self-judgement. There was no hesitation and not much filtering either. In fact, the process was, and is, so quick that it sometimes feels that I haven’t written the piece at all. If someone made a comment on Instagram, I would have to look again and remind myself of what it was that I’d written.

But really, if I’m very honest with myself, writing isn’t new at all. I confess that it has always been there in the background. There is evidence here and there. Notes of words, online and off. When I recently sorted out papers and books in my study, I found pieces of writing, jottings and notes from years, even decades ago. There are photographs of park benches from many countries on phones and cameras still. Spots where I had stopped to sit, reflect, makes notes. When I mention these ‘new writings’ to my children, they will say, “But, Mum, you’ve always been a good writer”. I guess I hadn’t told myself. They knew it. Others could see it. Only I didn’t know.

So, my journey with writing, my experiment with words, is now a part of me. It’s a part of who I am. I don’t know exactly where it will lead. And right now, this isn’t important. What is important is that I’ve begun.