Pen + Paper > Pandemic
When the world shut down in 2020, it felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under all of us. Days blurred together—endless headlines, endless uncertainty, endless quiet. I remember sitting at my kitchen table with my coffee going cold, staring at the same four walls and thinking, Well, now what? It was during this time I turned to writing in a journal to process my thoughts.
That’s when I picked up a pen.
Not because I had anything profound to say. Not because I thought I was recording history for the ages. Honestly, I just needed somewhere to put all the noise rattling around in my head. So I started writing—lists, fragments, half-thoughts, doodles in the margins. Some days it was messy. Some days it was neat. But every time, without fail, I felt myself settle a little more with each stroke of ink.
The world outside was unpredictable, but on the page, I had something solid. I could name what I was feeling. Capture a tiny detail from an otherwise ordinary day. Scribble down worries and then close the notebook, like shutting a door on them.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was rediscovering something I’d always known: handwriting grounds me. It slows me down. It pulls me out of the whirlwind of “what-ifs” and brings me back into my own skin. During those long pandemic months, my journal became a lifeline—a reminder that even when everything feels shaky, there’s something steady about pen meeting paper.
Looking back now, I see it wasn’t just about getting through the pandemic. It was about remembering who I am when the world gets loud. Writing anchors me. Always has. Always will.
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