Once Upon a Wise

I have not posted anything since June, and seeing that written out feels startling in itself. So much has been happening, and almost none of it has involved writing. Life has felt loud and demanding, and I have spent these months trying to keep up with responsibilities that multiply faster than I can check them off a list. Lately, I have been tired in a way that sleep does not quite fix, overwhelmed in a way that makes even the things I love feel distant.

Still, in the quiet hours of the morning, when the world is asleep, and my mind refuses to rest, they find me again. The characters return, just as they always do. They reach out with their stories, vivid and insistent, urging me to listen. I tell myself I will remember every detail, that I will write them down later, only to watch them fade as the sun rises. The worlds they belong to feel strangely familiar, comforting in a way that surprises me, and far more wondrous than the routines that fill my days. Writing has always been my escape, the place where repetition loosens its grip and imagination reminds me who I am.

This Christmas, my husband gave me a journal. Not just any journal, but a leather-bound one adorned with Lord of the Rings memorabilia, one of my favorite films and stories. It felt symbolic, intentional, and deeply thoughtful. More than the gift itself, it was the reminder that mattered. Writing deserves time. The chores, the obligations, the noise of everyday life will still be there tomorrow. They always are.

Right now, I need to write, even if it is only for myself. Even if no one else ever reads the words. I miss the escape, the grounding, the sense of purpose that comes from putting thoughts and stories onto paper. It has been far too long. It is not that the urge to write has disappeared. It has been waiting patiently while I kept choosing everything else first.

With 2026 approaching, I realize I have made promises again, promises to myself that I do not want to break. I know now that feeling stuck is not the problem. Not writing is. The overwhelm I feel comes from living in a world that feels incomplete without the worlds I create alongside it. This life is real and meaningful, but it has always been a backdrop for the stories that call to me.

So this is me returning. Slowly, imperfectly, but honestly. It is time to listen again. It is time to write.