A couple of months ago, I started to feel like something was missing from my life. Not a person. Not a hobby. Just… something. A quiet ache I couldn’t quite name.
After a bit of a crash out and a heart-to-heart with my love, the fog cleared: I was missing writing.
I’ve been a “writer” since first grade. It started with a mix of grit and sheer stubbornness—a little spark inside me that only burned brighter when things got tough.
You see, I’m not from this country. English isn’t my first language. When I was five, my family moved to the U.S., and I was dropped into school near the end of the year. I had to repeat kindergarten, mostly because I didn’t yet know the language. I think that moment—being held back for something I couldn’t control—ignited something in me. I wanted to prove I could do it. So I dove headfirst into the language. Once I found my footing, I wanted to go deeper.
What makes a good piece of writing? And how can I replicate it.
In first grade, I won a writing award and was invited to “Night of the Stars,” a lovely little showcase my school held for student writers. It even aired on cable access (Channel 11, if you’re curious), so yes—I made my television debut at age six. After that, writing was it for me. My thing. My joy. My power. And when the inevitable question came—what do you want to be when you grow up?—I had my answer: a journalist.
And I did it. For five beautiful, messy, exhilarating years after college, I wrote for both local and national outlets. I loved the chase, the craft, the impact.
But like so many millennial journalists, I burned out. Badly. The tears I cried over an industry trying to find its footing—grappling with its past, stretching toward a better future—were endless. And as a young Black woman, I carried an extra weight. The challenges I faced too often had nothing to do with the actual work. It was exhausting.
So, I pivoted. I stepped into a role where I didn’t write. And for a while, it was what I needed. I caught my breath.
But then that quiet ache returned. The longing. The sense that something essential was missing—a phantom limb.
After my crash-out moment, a realization struck with the force of clarity: I have free will. If I want to write, I can write. If I want to spill my thoughts onto a page, I can. No gatekeepers. No rules. Just me, my words and the choice to use them.
I’ve always been the type to do things simply because they bring me joy. When I lived in New York (a story for another time), I went to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade—even though locals swore it was overrated. (Spoiler: It’s absolutely not, and I will die on this hill.) When I lived in Wisconsin, I explored the state just to soak in its quiet beauty—even though I had no money and zero sense of direction. When my husband and I started dating, I proposed monthly check-ins to make sure we stayed connected. That’s just me.
So why not do the same for something that’s more than a hobby? Writing has always been a part of me. It’s the reason I’ve returned to this space—and why it feels so good to be here again.
I’ll leave you with this: Do the thing. Nobody is stopping you but you. It might feel bold, or scary, or even a little wild. Do it anyway. Leap off that metaphorical cliff.
You might just find yourself flying.
Marina Jo's Place 