by For the writer who doesn’t think they have anything to offer — and why you’re wrong.
I Had Nothing — But I Wrote Anyway
When I first started writing, I had no audience, no formal experience, and truthfully, no sense of self-worth. I didn’t even have a bed. My children and I were sleeping on the floor in a borrowed space, with nothing but bags of clothing, a few scattered possessions, and a heart full of fear. There was no polished desk, no quiet office, no inspirational coffee mug on a windowsill. Just survival.
But I wrote anyway.
Not because I thought I was a great writer. Not because I dreamed of book deals or publishing contracts. I wrote because it was the only thing I could do that reminded me I still existed — that I still had a voice, even if I wasn’t brave enough to speak it out loud.
If you’re reading this and feeling like you have nothing to say, no reason to start, and nothing worth sharing — I want to look you in the eye and tell you: You are dead wrong.
From Rock Bottom to a Blank Page
A few years ago, I escaped an abusive relationship with my children and our animals in tow. We found temporary safety just three miles from the man who once held complete control over our lives. Every time the sun went down, a new fear crept in. I would peek through the blinds at every sound, every shadow. My heart raced for hours.
But we were alive.
And that mattered.
This isn’t a story about domestic violence, though that chapter shaped me. This is a story about rebuilding. About how, even when you feel like your entire life is in ruins, there’s still one small thing you can do: create.
Start Where You Are — Exactly As You Are
After our escape, life didn’t magically improve. Sure, we were technically “free,” but freedom is complicated. It’s lonely. It’s financially devastating. It’s full of decisions and doubts you never thought you’d have to make.
We lived simply. We didn’t have furniture. But I had one small blessing — an online teaching job that paid better than most in the field. It kept the lights on. It paid for groceries. It reminded me that I still had value in the world, even when everything felt broken.
In between lessons and motherhood, I began writing.
I wasn’t sharing publicly at first. I was journaling, scribbling thoughts in Google Docs, piecing together the fragments of a shattered identity. And then one day, I hit “publish.” Not because I was ready, but because I needed to let it go. I needed to breathe through my fingertips.
No Followers. No Platform. No Problem.
When I shared my first piece, no one noticed. Not really. I didn’t go viral. There were no thousands of claps or retweets. I had no email list, no community, no brand.
But here’s what I learned: You don’t need an audience to start — you need a reason.
I wrote because writing became my therapy. My protest. My rebellion against silence.
Little by little, people began to read. Not millions. But a few. Then a few more. They sent messages like, “This made me cry,” or “I’ve been through this, too.” And with every note, I realized: our pain, when spoken, becomes someone else’s permission to speak.
What You Think Disqualifies You Is Actually What Makes You Powerful
You might think you’re too damaged, too quiet, too inexperienced, or too irrelevant to write anything that matters.
But the truth is: the raw, unfiltered parts of you — the ones you hide, the ones that feel too broken — are often the parts someone else needs to hear most.
Experience isn’t always a résumé. It’s what you’ve lived through. It’s the perspective you carry. It’s the wisdom you’ve earned the hard way.
Your voice matters. Your story matters. Even if you’re not polished. Even if you’re terrified. Especially if you’re terrified.
My Writing Didn’t Start With Hope — It Gave Me Hope
You don’t have to be confident to begin writing. I wasn’t.
You don’t need a social media following. Or a fancy setup. Or someone’s permission.
You only need this:
A willingness to tell the truth.
A moment of courage.
And a blank page.
That’s where I started.
And if you’re standing there now — in your fear, in your doubt, in your silence — I want you to know: you’re not alone.
Write anyway.
Not because you believe in yourself yet, but because someday, you might.
And if you keep going, you might just turn your lowest moment into someone else’s lifeline.
You have something to offer.
Start where you are.
Tell the truth.
Write the story only you can tell.
And don’t you dare believe that you’re not enough.
