Why I Write
A few days ago, during yoga teacher training, we explored the concept of non-attachment. Our instructor led us through a powerful exercise using Post-it notes — one note per answer — across four categories:
Our favorite hobbies and pleasures
Our most meaningful relationships and connections
Our material objects and belongings
Our personality traits — how we define ourselves
We were asked to write four responses per category. And once we finished, the teacher gave us a new instruction:
“Begin letting go.”
One by one, we had to remove Post-its and give them to her. We weren’t told where the exercise was going — only that we had to surrender.
I started with material objects. And honestly, that part was easy.
I had written down:
A pen — because writing has always been important to me.
Sunglasses — a simple, useful comfort.
Still, it wasn’t hard to give them up. I watched as others around me also gave away their material items quickly. No hesitation. It was clear: stuff doesn’t define us.
Next came hobbies and pleasures.
This was harder.
One of mine was walking — because walking is how I reconnect. With nature. With my mind. With my body. Many of my best ideas have come from walks.
Another was thinking — deep thought, reflection, analysis. It’s not just a pleasure; it’s part of how I exist in the world.
Still, I gave them up. Reluctantly.
Then came the relationships category.
Here’s what I had written:
My mom and dad
My cat, Bean
Humanity
That last one — humanity — caught me off guard when I wrote it. But it felt true. I’ve always cared deeply about people. About our shared future. I believe there’s a basic goodness in everyone.
It was in this category that the exercise began to hurt. Giving up my parents? Difficult. But there was a part of me that could let go, knowing they’ve lived full lives.
Giving up Bean? Even harder. Because she’s not just a pet. She represents something personal — my sense of nurturing. Of raising and caring for another being. She’s a symbol of who I am when I first learned to love another.
But I gave her up, too.
Because if it meant choosing between her and humanity, I knew what I would choose.
My cat is deeply personal. But humanity represents something bigger. Something enduring. Something collective.
And then — the hardest category of all — our personality traits.
What makes us who we are?
I had written:
Calm
Curious
Intellectual
These were harder than all the rest. Even the simple Post-it that said calm — when my teacher finally took it from me, I felt something shift.
Losing that Post-it felt like losing a piece of who I am. I pride myself on staying calm in difficult situations. It helps me make decisions. It keeps me grounded when the world is chaotic. Losing it felt like losing control — like losing my anchor.
And then, without warning, the teacher took everything from me.
She swept up all the Post-its — even the ones I hadn’t surrendered.
And just like that, I was left with nothing.
No hobbies. No possessions. No loved ones. No identity.
I sat there. Still. And I felt a tear quietly run down my face.
Not because I was sad. But because it was real.
A reminder that everything can be taken from us — at any moment. An accident. A disaster. A diagnosis. A war. A breath.
This exercise taught me more than I expected:
Which parts of my life I hold tightly.
Which things are replaceable, and which aren’t.
What defines my sense of self — and what doesn’t.
What I’m willing to give up for something greater.
So yes, I write.
I don’t write for fame. I don’t write for money. I don’t even write to be known.
I write to bring value to others, to humanity.
My lived experiences haven’t always been easy. Some of them were painful. Some I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But instead of letting those lessons die with me, I write them down — hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone else can learn from them sooner, or hurt a little less because of what I’ve been through.
Maybe people still have to live through their own versions of pain. Maybe lessons don’t always stick unless they’re earned. But there are so many emotions humans can feel. So many challenges we endure. And if my stories can offer even one person a bit of guidance, clarity, or peace — then that’s enough.
Every day, I’m still learning. Still growing. Still asking questions. And I don’t want all of that to vanish the day I do.
So I write.
I write because if I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I don’t want my lessons — my breakthroughs, my mistakes, my growth — to die with me.
And maybe you feel the same.
Maybe you’ve lived through things others could benefit from.
Maybe you’ve figured out things that took you years — and someone out there could learn it in minutes, if only you shared it.
Because when we die, all of that dies with us — unless we choose to leave something behind.
So I hope I keep writing until the end, because my life is a gift, to me, to you, and to the world.