The Gift I Didn’t Know I’d Need

I’ve always been able to write. But for most of my life, I didn’t write because I loved it - I wrote because I could. It was just another tool in my toolkit.

I was that mom, constantly correcting my kids' grammar at the dinner table - something they loved, of course. English always came easy to me. I could whip out a college essay without blinking. Senior year of high school, I won state in creative writing. I was proud, sure - but it didn’t feel extraordinary. It just felt like something I knew how to do.

That skill came from my dad. A poet, through and through. He’s been writing since he was a teenager - pouring his heartbreak and hardship into verses that helped lighten the load. He’s still at it, still writing poetry and songs, still using words as a balm.

And now, I see that same spark in my daughter. She writes constantly - stories that live and breathe, with characters so rich I forget they aren’t real. Her talent? It’s undeniable. Honestly, some of her work deserves a publisher’s desk and an audience.

So maybe writing is a family trait. A thread that’s been passed down - father to daughter to daughter. Can you inherit the ability to touch people with your words? Maybe. All I know is that three generations of us carry this gift, each with our own voice, our own rhythm.

My dad and Reese have always burned with passion for their craft. Me? I’m just now finding that fire. But I’m grateful for it. Writing has become my way through anxiety, my outlet when the world gets too loud.

I don’t know how many stories I have left in me. But I do know this: lately, writing has saved me in ways I never expected.