Writing feels hard right now in my life and, honestly, for the past two decades. Time constraints, domestic responsibilities, and rusted skills, each obstacle deterring the completion of this creative journey.

My house reverberates with the cacophony of family life, leaving it difficult to find the quiet moments necessary to write. Amidst this beautiful symphony of chaos, finding the tranquil solitude to reflect and craft sentences is like finding a needle in a haystack. Moreover, the irregularity of my writing practice over the years makes each attempt feel like starting from scratch. Words that once flowed freely now appear like reluctant companions, making each sentence a struggle.

The ambiguity of my audience further complicates matters. Finding those who resonate with my thoughts is a daunting task in the vast sea of perspectives. I should remind myself that writing is a personal journey, a dialogue with my own self. I learned this in my high school Freshman Writing, proctored by my school’s headmaster, Mr. Burke. Mr. Burke was a phenomenal writer and someone I learned much from in this regard.

Despite the current hurdles, I persist. Writing is more than a skill to me - it’s an integral part of my identity, a testament to my experiences and emotions. Its challenges, though daunting, cannot outweigh its significance in my life.

So I choose to keep writing here in my digital space as well as in my analog notebook. Each word is a step towards breaking down the barriers, towards regaining the rhythm I once had. The audience is secondary. My primary audience is myself, and I am unwilling to silence my thoughts.