In 7th grade, I had a fantastic English teacher, Mrs. Weinstein. She coordinated her glasses frames to match her outfits—I absolutely loved this about her. It was fun to walk into class and see what color frames she’d be wearing that day.
There was something else about her that I loved: her passion for free writing. At the start of every class, we would sit for 10 minutes, listen to classical music, and the direction was simply to write. There were no prompts, no expectation of perfect grammar—just write down whatever you wanted. The gift afterward was a lightness I would typically feel. To this day, when I need to write or focus on work, I choose classical music—it really helps me focus.
It was the lack of prompts and the lack of grading that helped open me up to writing just for the sake of it. I never knew what I was going to write about, and that didn’t matter either.
I don’t have any of those writings or notebooks from that class. It would be cool to go back and see what was there—where I was at the time in my life, what mattered to me then. How did I write? Did it sound like the way I talked? Did I use words I maybe don’t use anymore?
At some point, after 7th grade and Mrs. Weinstein’s class, I stopped free writing. I stopped documenting. I didn’t put my thoughts down into a notebook. I didn’t give myself permission to just write freely. Writing became a chore. I was disconnected from myself during much of high school, and my studies suffered. The last thing I wanted to do was document what was happening at that time—my inner thoughts, my fears, my crushes, my sadness. I didn’t give myself the chance to capture that because I didn’t think it mattered.
Many years later, I picked up a notebook and began to write. No rules. No grammar checks. No prompts. Just free space to write. I started writing a lot about how I felt. The more I did this, the more I began to notice patterns—conversations I’d had that left me feeling a certain way.
It also became a space where I reflected on the past—a lot. I wrote about different experiences I’d had and how, perhaps, I was still tangled in them.
Writing became an everyday event. My time. My words. My thoughts. I noticed that sometimes, when I wrote, I didn’t really know what I was writing about or where I was headed. It became a form of meditation for me. I was able to truly let go and clear my head. I typically feel better after I write—sometimes even energized, especially if I’m writing directly to myself to help take action.
I started using writing to organize my thoughts before difficult conversations at work. I used it to stand in my own corner and ground myself when I felt uneasy. It became a way to give myself permission to ask: How do I feel? What do I need? Writing gives me clarity—and a steady sense of ground.
I share all of this because maybe, like me, you’ve lost touch with writing at some point. Or maybe you never felt permission to begin. But writing doesn’t need to be polished or perfect. It just needs to be yours.
You don’t need the right notebook, or the right time. You just need a moment of stillness, a little music if it helps, and the willingness to be with whatever comes up.
This practice has helped me come back to myself—again and again. And my hope is that, in some small way, it might do the same for you.
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