interviews with myself: why i'll never stop writing
03: & how we can write together [2 SPOTS LEFT! RSVP to TOGETHER Un/done]
I don’t say this lightly: writing has transformed my life.
It has been the most metamorphic tool in shaping who I am today—pulling me out of decades of self-loathing and inner turmoil, and guiding me to a place where I actually believe I am worthy of pursuing a creative life.
In my last newsletters, I shared that I’ll be co-hosting an in-person gathering in LA at 736 Studios on June 1, 2025 from 3 - 5:30 pm.
This offering, titled TOGETHER Un/done, is for the ones feeling creatively blocked, emotionally stuck, or in a season where the answers around what’s next haven’t fully arrived yet, and the questions won’t leave you alone.
We’ll be integrating writing and breath-work as tools for transformation.
Not to force clarity, but to make space for it.
A space where you don’t have to be healed to be whole. Where you can sit with what’s surfacing, without rushing to fix it.
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The following self-interview was written as a way for me to reconnect with why I’ve always turned to writing as a way to heal.
No matter your craft, I absolutely believe that writing has the power to sharpen your voice, deepen your clarity, and guide you back towards your deepest truth.
(7 min read)
What makes writing feel important to you right now?
It’s the clearest mirror I have. When I’m caught in mental loops, unsure of what’s mine and what’s conditioning, writing always cuts through. It helps me observe my thoughts without judgment. I do my best not to go into writing trying to make sense of everything right away. It’s about sitting with what’s present and giving it a place to land. Some days that looks like a full page. Other days it’s a sentence that hits so hard I have to stop. Either way, the act of writing keeps me anchored and in tune with my emotions.
Has writing always held this kind of weight?
For as long as I can remember. I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. Before I even understood what I was doing. I didn’t have the language for things like grief, rage, shame, longing… but I knew how to pick up a pen and vent. That instinct has always been there. I used to write letters I never sent. Poems no one would read. Journal entries I’d immediately rip out. Back then, it wasn’t about crafting something beautiful. It was about surviving my own inner world.
As a child of immigrants, I grew up in a home where I often felt deeply misunderstood. Writing became the one place I could release my rage safely.
As I grew up, writing became less about escape and more about return. A way to come back to myself and remember my wholeness. That shift—writing not just to release, but to remember—changed everything.
What do you notice when you write that you might not catch otherwise?
My patterns. The intergenerational cycles! The toxic stories we keep repeating. The things I’m still trying to get over but haven’t fully let go of. Writing shows me where I’m still holding on. Sometimes with a death grip.
It also reminds me how far I’ve come. I’ll revisit old journal entries and see how something that once consumed me now barely stirs a reaction. That kind of growth is easy to miss without a record. But when you see it in writing, it’s proof—you have changed, even when your mind tells you otherwise.
Lastly, writing is where I catch the things I’ve been avoiding and resisting. The truths that slip out mid-paragraph before I can filter them. Writing doesn’t let me bypass myself. Writing always inspires me to confront my truth.
Can you talk more in depth about this connection between writing and transformation?
Transformation doesn’t always look like a clean before-and-after. Sometimes it’s slow and subtle. Writing makes those shifts visible. It allows me to stay in process without demanding resolution. That alone is powerful. Because so much of life trains us to hurry up, to figure it out, to be done. But writing says: You’re allowed to linger here. You’re allowed to not know yet.
When I write, I’m not forcing clarity. I’m creating conditions where clarity might arise. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. But either way, I’ve stayed with myself through the not-knowing. And that, to me, is where transformation begins.
That’s powerful. And I’m curious—what actually changes when you write? Can you give an example of a time when writing shifted something real for you, not just internally, but in how you moved through the world?
Yes. Writing helps me turn mental chaos into clarity. Our brains can be loud—full of loops, doubts, worst-case scenarios. But when I write, it’s like composting all of that. The fear, the anger, the confusion—it gets processed into something I can actually work with. It doesn’t disappear, but it softens. It becomes less scary.
There was a season when I was doing a lot of work around my upbringing, and I started to realize how much of my adult life had been shaped by silence. The kind that teaches you to be agreeable, to not ask for too much, to tuck away the parts of yourself that might challenge other people.
At first, I didn’t have the language for any of that. But still, I kept writing. I wrote about the confusion. The way guilt would show up when I set a boundary. About the moments I felt most disconnected from my culture and the grief that came with that. About the parts of my identity I was still afraid to fully claim. And slowly, the patterns started revealing themselves.
Writing didn’t fix what was wrong. But it gave me permission to feel it and to see it from a different perspective. To say what hadn’t been said in generations. And that changed how I started showing up in real conversations with family, with friends, with myself. And that shift didn’t start in a face-to-face talk with anyone. It started on the page.
Wow… there’s a lot here, and I know we could go so much deeper. But I’ll keep it simple for now. Do you think writing can still be healing even when it feels hard or uncomfortable?
Absolutely. I believe the discomfort and the willingness to sit through it is a sign that the healing is already taking place. Being able to feel our pain is exactly how we heal. Some of the most healing entries I’ve written have been the ones that felt the hardest to get through. When it’s tender, when I feel blocked, when I don’t know where to start—that’s usually when something real is trying to come through. The goal isn’t to feel better immediately. The goal is to be as honest as possible. And almost always, honesty hurts before it soothes.
But I think it’s also important to note that not every entry has to lead to a breakthrough. Sometimes the healing is in showing up. Naming something. Writing it down so it no longer only lives inside you.
What would you say to someone who feels creatively blocked or unsure how to begin?
Start small. Don’t wait until you feel clear. Start while you’re confused, while you’re tired, while you’re scared you won’t get it right. The page doesn’t require you to be wise, it just requires you to be willing. Ask yourself what you’re avoiding. Ask what part of you hasn’t been heard in a while. Even if the first few sentences feel awkward or disjointed, keep going. Eventually, something opens. And even if it doesn’t today, the act of showing up still matters.
I’ve come to realize that creative blocks aren’t just about the writing itself—they’re about something that’s unresolved within us. When the words won’t come, it’s often because something within you needs to be seen or felt first. Writing isn’t just about producing, it’s a way of listening. Sometimes, the block is actually an invitation to turn inward and reconnect with the part of you that creates from truth, not pressure.
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So beautifully written and expressed, Val. It's because of you I've started to journal in the morning (almost) every day since you've shared the Morning Pages with me during our stroll. It has been a nice release for me lately and reading this post has given me more of a push to continue. <3