I keep a folder in my desk labeled “Feel Good.”

Nothing fancy. Just a worn manila envelope stuffed with kindness.

Whenever someone writes me in response to something I’ve shared, I print it out and tuck it away.

Some are short: “Thanks, I needed that.”

Others feel shaky as if you can feel their emotion through the screen.

Most days, it’s quiet. But every once in a while, someone answers back.

Like the email I got from my cousin Gina the other day after I shared something about my mom’s passing:

“That was deeply moving and immensely personal. Not many things you read today make you feel something physically.”

I keep their responses not to stroke my ego but to remind me, on the hard days, why I keep going.

The days when I wonder if writing this book is just me tossing paper airplanes into the Grand Canyon, hoping one flies back with a note that says, “I hear ya.”

The days when writing feels like walking through wet cement.

Or when I sit in front of my computer and the blinking cursor is like a clingy ex who won’t go away.

And I ask myself:

What’s the point, really?

It’s easy to believe I write because people respond.

Because someone claps.

Because someone says, “That meant something.”

And sure, that helps – because recognition is a warm blanket when the world feels cold.

But that’s not the whole truth. Not even close.

Because the real gift isn’t in the recognition.

It’s in the release.

It’s in the moment I stop holding my breath and start telling the truth.

In the exhale that happens when the page catches what the heart can’t hold.

I don’t write to impress. I write to let go.

I don’t write to be understood. I write to be honest.

I don’t write to be praised. I write to be free.

To say what’s been sitting on my spine for days, maybe years.

To take the heaviness and help it move.

Sometimes, the words answer back.

Sometimes, they just float.

But either way, something in me gets lighter.

There are so many things we do waiting for recognition.

Waiting to be noticed. Affirmed. Applauded.

And yes, those things matter. They feel good.

But beneath that, there’s something quieter.

Something purer.

A deep human need to express.

Writing, for me, has become that space.

A confessional booth with no one on the other side of the curtain.

A campfire where I’m the only one telling stories.

A mirror where some days, I can barely meet my own eyes.

And when someone says, “I felt that,” it’s not just encouraging.

It’s sacred.

It means what I released from my soul found its way to someone else’s.

That’s not just writing. That’s connection.

So I’ll keep doing it.

Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Even when no one’s watching.

Because the act of expression is its own kind of healing.

And even though I tell myself

writing is for the reader,

maybe it’s just the way I know

how to live in the one place

that’s always felt safe…

my soul.