29/08/2025
There is a quiet power in writing that transcends performance. To write for a cause, not applause, is to resist the lure of recognition and instead lean into the deeper pulse of meaning. It is to write not to impress, but to express—to offer something raw, real, and rooted in truth. In this way, writing becomes less about being seen and more about being felt. Less about being noticed, and more about being remembered.
For me, writing has never been just a craft—it has been a companion. A way of finding my voice when the world felt too loud or too silent. In moments of uncertainty or clarity, joy or ache, writing has allowed me to pause and listen inwardly. To trace the contours of what I felt, to name the impact, and to hold it with care. That act of remembering—of capturing the emotional texture of a moment—is sacred. It deserves to be preserved, not for others to admire, but for me to return to. To re-read and re-feel. To reauthor.
This is the beauty of narrative practice: the invitation to become the author of your own story. Not a passive character swept along by circumstance, but a conscious narrator who chooses which threads to weave, which truths to honor, which meanings to make. No one else can feel the way I feel. No one else can write the way I write. And yet, through writing, a bridge is built—between my experience and yours, between my voice and the voices of others who may find echoes of themselves in my words.
Writing becomes a language of connection. A way of saying, “This is how it was for me,” and allowing someone else to respond, “I know that feeling.” In that shared recognition, something shifts. We are no longer alone in our stories. We are remembered, not just by ourselves, but by others who see themselves reflected in our pages.
And that, to me, is the quiet revolution of writing—not to be admired, but to be understood. Not to be elevated, but to be felt. Not to be perfect, but to be true.
Reflection: Leonie Prinsloo
