The Pages I Couldn't Write

These past few weeks, there were several pages I couldn't write.

Stories that I promised to finish, blogs that I had every intention of writing. Instagram posts that I told myself needed to be done because that's what we're supposed to do, right? Constantly scream louder than the rest so that we can be seen. Get our voices out there, be consistent.

I've always believed that no matter how heavy life can become, I could still reach for language. Words have always been my way through grief, confusion, joy, and fear. Writing has never required permission from my body...until it did.

Severe anemia is quite a thief.

It doesn't arrive dramatically, like a text from your extroverted friend. It drains you slowly: stealing breath first, then strength, then thought. The blank page before me sat empty of words as my body emptied of oxygen.

Twice, my body wanted to give up, and I ended up in the hospital. Twice, I lay still while blood (someone else's generosity, someone else's strength) was transfused into me. There is something truly humbling about needing that much help to continue existing.

I always wanted to be the type of writer who writes through anything.

But the truth is, I'm not.

Every day, I felt depleted. I couldn't summon the emotional stamina it would take to wrestle meaning into paragraphs. Anemia had scattered my thoughts into fragments that I couldn't find a way to put back together.

The hospital rooms held the fear of feeling my heart race while my body felt heavy. It also held the strange gratitude of being cared for by strangers, and the quiet grief of being absent from the work that defines me.

But I'm back at it! I've received an iron transfusion, which is slowly helping me to get back to feeling like myself. My thoughts are becoming more ordered, and I'm able to pull them with greater ease from my mind to the page.

I think one of the most important things that I've learned in these past few months is that the body demands the silence it needs to heal. Listen to it.

And could this be true as well? That sometimes the most honest thing that a writer can do is step away from the page and admit, "I can't today."

Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day, or the next...

Bravery is allowing yourself to slow down when your body demands healing.

These are the pages I couldn't write then.

Maybe this reflection, this looking back with steadier hands and fuller breath, is the beginning of writing them at last.