Why I Started Writing (Journaling)
How One Traumatic Experience Led Me to Writing
On our way to the library, my sister and I were waiting at a traffic light when a tall, older man stepped up beside us. He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m taking you home with me today.” I instinctively pulled away, startled. I tried to ignore him and kept my distance, but I could feel him edging closer again. Then, out of nowhere, he lunged at my sister and grabbed her. I froze, completely panicked, not knowing what to do, so I just started screaming.
Even though the street was full of people, no one—truly no one—tried to help. They just kept walking, glancing at us without saying a word. Even when I called out for help, all I got were puzzled looks. My sister managed to break free from his grip, and we took off running. But the man didn’t stop. He chased after us.
Panicked, we ducked into the small library, hoping to hide. But through the window, we could still see him, standing outside. Waiting.
The moment he turned away for a second, we took the chance and ran out to call the police. But what happened next was even more disheartening. Shaking, I explained on the phone that a man had been following us for a while and was now waiting outside. The officer, sounding completely unbothered, asked, “Well, did you ask him what he wants from you?”
I tried to explain the situation to him, but he just scoffed and laughed, telling us to wait in a public space until the man eventually left, and then simply go home. Before he could finish his sentence, I hung up—furious. I couldn’t believe it. Tears were streaming down our faces.
Looking back now, and seeing the person I’ve become, I know this much: I would’ve kicked his ass. But back then, I was too young, way too young, and far too shy to stand up for myself.
We ran like our lives depended on it, not stopping until he was out of sight. When we finally got on the train, completely shaken, we wondered if maybe we should try asking for help one more time. But then a group of men looked at us and started laughing. Today, I don’t think they were laughing at us, but in that moment, it felt like they were. In that moment, it felt like the whole world was against us.
You might be wondering why I’m even telling this story, and what any of this has to do with writing.
The truth is, it was that very fear that first led me to writing. The fear I felt in that moment triggered a storm of emotions I didn’t know how to handle. The months that followed were an emotional rollercoaster. That one experience shook something loose inside me—things I had been suppressing for so long, feelings I didn’t even know I was capable of having.
Since I was a child, I’ve carried certain beliefs: I’m not allowed to cry, because that would make me look weak. I shouldn’t trust anyone, because they’ll use it against me. And I mustn’t speak too loudly, because then everyone will stare.
I spent a long time processing what happened. It left a mark, so deep that it eventually turned into social anxiety. I withdrew. Being around people became something I had to force myself through.
When I think back to that moment now, it doesn’t even seem that bad. And yet, it stirred something in me—something buried much deeper. Today, I’m actually grateful for it. Because even though it seemed like just a single moment at the time, things slowly began to unravel afterward.
To be honest, I’ve lived through far, far worse, some of it at an even younger age. But that one moment of helplessness triggered something in me. Now I understand that trauma isn’t always about the event itself, it’s about what happens inside you afterward.
Looking back, I see that the reason things got so much worse was all in my mind. It was the way I carried it.
One day, I simply decided to go see a therapist. I gathered all the courage I had, but I couldn’t tell anyone. If I did, they’d think I was “messed up,” so I kept it to myself. That first session was awful. The moment I walked out of the room, I was certain I’d never go back. How am I supposed to trust someone who’s so judgmental, so cold, so unkind? That’s all I could think. At the end, he said, “If you can’t talk about it, write everything down in a notebook, and I’ll read it. Then we’ll see how to move forward.” Sure, I thought to myself, full of irony.
I left that room feeling more helpless than ever. Therapy had been my last hope. I knew something wasn’t right inside me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. These constant fears, the pain that didn’t even feel like it was mine, the emotional crashes, the depressive spirals, the endless loop of dark thoughts.
His words—“Write it all down”—kept echoing in my mind over the next few days. I tried to brush it off. What good would that do? Writing it down wouldn’t take the pain away. And what if someone read it?
Still, I found a notebook at home and started writing. I had no idea what to write, how to write it, or even where to begin. But I wrote. And I wrote and wrote. I didn’t want to stop. Over and over, the same thought crept in: What if someone finds this? I made a promise to myself: I’ll run it under water—no one will ever read it. And so I kept writing. I couldn’t stop. Everything around me faded.
For the first time in my life, I was able to put the images down on paper. For the first time, I could be completely honest. I could say what I felt, what I thought, what I had seen and experienced. And there was nothing more liberating than that.
Since then, I’ve never stopped writing. I write to feel free. I write to learn, to grow, to heal—and to understand.
Through writing, I haven’t just transformed my own life, and I’m still in the process—I’ve also helped change the lives of many others. And I hope I can inspire you to write, too.
Writing healed my deepest wounds. It taught me to steer my life in a direction that finally felt like mine. I’ve rewritten so many old beliefs that no longer served me. Today, I’m a completely different person, and I owe that to writing.
For my paid subscribers, I’ve put together a set of journaling prompts I wish I had back then—questions that would have helped me take that very first step.