I always tell people writing is my life, and they look at me like I’m exaggerating, like I’m trying to sound deep or poetic. But the truth is quieter than that. Writing isn’t loud in my life. It doesn’t demand attention. It waits.

It waits through the busy mornings when I rush out without a second thought. It waits through long afternoons filled with work, noise, and distraction. It waits through nights when I scroll endlessly, telling myself I’m too tired to think, too drained to feel.

But every now and then, it taps me on the shoulder.

Not loudly. Never loudly.

Just a whisper.

It happens in strange moments, when I’m staring out of a bus window watching Lagos traffic crawl like it has nowhere to be, or when I hear someone tell a story that feels unfinished, or when a memory hits me so sharply I have to sit down and breathe through it.

That’s when the words come.

Not perfectly. Not beautifully. Just honestly.

I remember one night, power was out, the room was hot, and sleep refused to come. My phone battery was dying, but my mind was alive. I started typing, not because I planned to write, but because something inside me refused to stay quiet.

By the time I stopped, I had written something raw. Messy. Real.

And for a moment, I felt… aligned.

Like I had returned to myself.

That’s the thing about writing for me, it’s not about consistency or discipline, even though I wish it was. It’s not about daily word counts or perfect grammar. Writing is where I go when I can’t carry my thoughts alone anymore. It’s where I place the weight of things I don’t fully understand.

But here’s the part I don’t like to admit:

If writing is truly my life, why do I abandon it so often?

Why do I choose distractions over expression? Why do I silence something that clearly gives me clarity?

Maybe it’s fear.

Fear that if I write too often, I’ll run out of things to say.

Fear that if I take it seriously, I’ll have to face how much it matters to me.

Fear that my words won’t be enough.

So I keep it at a distance. Close enough to feel, but not close enough to commit.

Still… it never leaves.

Writing doesn’t punish me for ignoring it. It doesn’t close its doors. It doesn’t demand an apology.

It just waits.

And maybe that’s why I know it’s truly mine.

Because no matter how far I drift, no matter how long I stay away, when I come back, it receives me like I never left.

Maybe one day, I’ll stop treating writing like a place I visit and start treating it like the home it has always been.

But until then, it waits.

And somehow, that’s enough.