Yes, I ask myself that question often.
Why do I write? Why does it feel like when I am writing, I am talking to someone? Why does it feel like I am releasing all my emotions when I write my heart out?
Well, I am the kind of person who keeps to myself. I try to entertain myself, motivate myself a lot… and yes, I criticize myself a lot too. I overthink, I replay conversations, I question my own choices more than I probably should. Sometimes I become my own biggest support system… and sometimes, my toughest critic.
And after all of this, I do get exhausted. I need to vent my thoughts out somewhere—and that somewhere becomes writing.
Nowadays, writing doesn’t feel like just a hobby anymore. It feels like my go-to place when I know nothing is going well. Like no matter how the day has been, if I sit down and write, I’ll feel like myself again. I find some level of comfort in it… something steady, something grounding.
My comfort zone, my safe space… now that I think of it, I myself am my comfort zone—and writing is where I meet that version of me.
People have a place or a hobby to fall back on when nothing is working out. For some, it’s a person. Someone they can go to, hide with, and just be without explaining too much. They let out all their burden, and it becomes a safe space for being them.
For me, writing does that. And doing this for an endless amount of time somehow makes sense to me. It doesn’t feel forced, it doesn’t feel like effort—it just feels natural.
Over the years, I have picked up many hobbies, and I keep going back to them often. But writing is something I don’t even know how I started. Probably looking at people around me, getting influenced by them to write. But over time, I realized that writing is the one place where I can express myself fully—without filters, without interruptions, without worrying about how it sounds or how it will be received. It’s just me and my thoughts, existing as they are.
And maybe that’s the thing about writing—any kind of writing forces you to sit with yourself. To slow down, to look within, to actually listen to what’s going on inside you. And I think a lot of people find that uncomfortable. Sitting with your own thoughts, facing your own emotions without distraction—it’s not always easy.
But somewhere, I found comfort in that discomfort. Writing became that space where I could understand myself a little better, without rushing to fix anything.
So why does writing feel like home?
Maybe because it doesn’t expect anything from me. It doesn’t judge me, it doesn’t interrupt me, it doesn’t ask me to be anything other than what I am in that moment.
It doesn’t rush me to have answers, it doesn’t question my pauses, it doesn’t make me feel like I need to explain myself. I can be messy, unsure, emotional, quiet—anything, everything—and it still holds space for me.
There is no pressure to perform, no need to filter, no fear of being misunderstood. Just a quiet kind of acceptance that I don’t always find elsewhere.
It just lets me be.
Anindita Rath
@scrambledwriter
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