Why I Write

When I was in high school, I took a writing class. When the semester began, I thought I was a natural. I was naturally terrible. My writing teacher saw how terrible of a writer I was, but he also saw what I could be. I remember him telling me, "I want to turn you into a writer. I want you to be able to write the way you play the piano." This was a struggle for me. Having immigrant parents, the English in my home was utilitarian and often awkward. From an early age, I had learned to express myself with music. I didn't need words. I just needed an instrument. My writing teacher taught me that I could be more. He gave me words and helped me find my voice. I have hidden this voice in the pages of the many journals I have toted around over the years. In a way, journals have been a safe place for me. They are where I pour out my soul, completely unfiltered. They are where the creativity and messiness of my life collide. They are for me. Only me.

When I found out I have lupus, I did what anybody else would do. I googled it. Words like, "Lupus destroyed my life," "I am all alone," and "I had a good life until I got lupus," filled my computer screen. I read stories of broken dreams and husbands leaving their wives because they couldn't handle the weight of being married to someone with a chronic illness. I saw angry, bitter, and hurting words. And my heart began to break. Early on in my diagnosis, I made a decision: I will again find my voice and not hide it in a journal. I will confront a world of despair with words of hope. I will make my life with lupus mean something. This is why I write.

So, to my high school writing teacher who refused to let me stay the way I was, thank you. I hope I have finally become what you always told me I could be.