In 2016, I was moving into a house for the first time, adjusting to a new job and getting used to Florida life. But something else was nagging at me, pulling loose threads in my mind and I just couldn’t let it go. My childhood memories burst through my mind, demanding to be written down. I started scrawling in a red journal, and as soon as I pressed pen to paper, I didn’t stop for months. I wrote about my little brother and I playing with mud in the woods. I wrote about what it was like to watch my older brothers wrestle in tournaments. I wrote about my dad protecting me, my mom teaching me. Soon I felt seven years old again, reliving memories about the swing in my backyard. I felt fifteen years old when remembering my high school. Writing became a form of therapy by rehashing a former life. My senses flooded with smells and tastes and noises as if I had experienced it that day and was just sitting down to write about it. I wrote with joy, most of the time.
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