Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved to write upon a blank page.
She’d hold a coloured pencil crayon in her tiny hand, and pull stories out of the air.
She’d write what she imagined, and about what she knew. She’d write about far away places she longed to go, and about the place she called her home.
Those coloured pencil crayons were wild and abandoned. The words she wrote told the story of a most spectacular past, present and future.
When she was very young, she’d share the stories that appeared with those around her.
Because she was only little, she had the wisdom to know that her words, though simple, were magic too.
As she grew older, she became afraid of the words that would fall out of the sky and wind up on the page before her. Afraid of the power they carried. Afraid of what those words might do. Afraid that the story she’d tell wouldn’t be the right one.
She forgot that our lives can only be as wondrous as the story we choose to tell with them.
A year ago, she stood before a blank page for the first time since she was a little girl.
As she stared out into the landscape of possibility, it became clear that she had two choices.
She could run from her story. Or she could write it out.
That little girl is no different from anyone.
We are all stories.
We all have our beginnings, our middles, and our ends.
There are no right words or wrong words.
There is only the story you choose to tell.