There is something uniquely intimidating about sitting in front of a blank document late at night. The cursor blinks impatiently, as if it’s waiting for you to prove that you still have something to say.
Writing has always been the one place where I feel like I can say exactly what I mean. But somewhere between academic essays, deadlines, and the exhaustion that comes with college, writing started to feel different. What once felt like a natural creative outlet slowly became something closer to a chore.
But it wasn’t always that way.
where it all started
I have been writing for as long as I can remember.
Before I fully understood grammar, spelling, or the structure of a story, I was reading chapter books in preschool and filling loose pages with little stories in elementary school. My mom still has them saved somewhere. They’re far from groundbreaking literary masterpieces, but she kept every single one.
She has always told me that she believes someday I will write a book. At the time, I assumed it was just the obligatory optimism that comes with being someone’s mom, so I didn’t think much of it. I just knew that stories felt natural to me.
Writing was never something I forced myself to do. It was simply something I did.
discovering the power of storytelling
As I got older, writing stopped being something I did quietly on my own and became something I could share with others.
In seventh grade, I joined speech and competed in a category called Creative Expression, where students write and perform their own stories. It was the first time I saw what storytelling could do in real time.
Standing in front of an audience, I could hold their attention for ten minutes and watch them react as the story unfolded — laughing at the funny parts, going silent during the serious ones, sometimes even crying.
Writing a story is powerful.
Watching people experience it as you tell it is something else entirely. Speech taught me that words could move people. But journalism taught me something even more important: how to tell stories that weren’t my own.
learning to tell other people’s stories
My dad owns a newspaper back home in Minnesota called the Pine Cone Press-Citizen, and working there introduced me to an entirely different purpose for writing.
Instead of telling fictional stories, I began documenting real ones.
I’ve had the opportunity to cover local artists, charitable leaders, Fourth of July Grand Marshals, new business owners, and people quietly dedicating their time to improving their communities. I’ve also reported on school board meetings, county meetings and decisions, and other local issues that directly affect people’s lives.
These experiences taught me something every journalist learns quickly: when your name is attached to a story circulating to thousands of readers, accuracy matters.
Representing someone correctly is a responsibility.
And with that responsibility came a deeper appreciation for journalism itself.
journalism and its role in democracy
Before working at a newspaper, I understood journalism mostly as a profession. Afterward, I began to understand it as something much larger.
In 1841, philosopher Thomas Carlyle referred to the press as the “Fourth Estate,” placing it alongside the branches of government as a pillar of democracy. A representative government depends on an informed public, and the press plays a crucial role in making that possible.
Journalists inform communities about the actions of those in power, highlight issues affecting everyday people, and preserve the stories that might otherwise go unnoticed.
Perhaps most importantly, a free press holds institutions accountable. Investigative reporting has exposed corruption, injustice, and abuses of power across the world. Whistleblowers rely on independent journalists to bring those truths to light.
Journalism is more than simply writing articles.
At its core, it is about documenting truth, amplifying voices, and making sure the stories of ordinary people are not forgotten.
the women who made it possible
Like many professions, journalism was historically dominated by men.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, women working in newspapers were often restricted to what were known as “women’s pages,” covering fashion, homemaking, and advice columns rather than politics or investigative reporting. Women were rarely promoted to editorial leadership and were often paid less than their male counterparts.
Despite these barriers, many women forced their way into journalism.
One of the most famous was Nellie Bly, an investigative journalist who feigned mental illness in 1887 to be admitted to Blackwell’s Island asylum in New York. Her reporting exposed the horrific conditions inside the institution and led to public reforms.
Another pioneer, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, risked her life reporting on the lynching of Black Americans in the 1890s. Her work angered powerful figures in the South and ultimately forced her to leave Memphis after a mob destroyed her newspaper office. Despite the danger, she continued reporting and became a leading voice in journalism, civil rights, and the women’s suffrage movement.
Without the persistence of women like Bly and Wells, journalism might look very different today.
Their work reminds me that the ability to write and publish freely, something that can feel ordinary today, was not always guaranteed.
when writing stopped feeling like mine
Despite my history with writing, something changed when I started college.
Somewhere between research papers and strict formatting guidelines, writing stopped feeling like a creative space. Instead, it became something I had to complete — a task measured by how well I could color inside the lines.
It reminded me of the feeling of starting to clean your room before your mom suddenly yells upstairs, “Clean your room!” Immediately, the motivation disappears.
All my creative energy was consumed by research requirements, structured arguments, and the pressure of deadlines.
At the same time, I was navigating my own mental health struggles. Moving away from home forced me to confront things I had been avoiding for years. My self-esteem dropped, and most days I felt like I only had enough energy to finish my assignments and take care of basic responsibilities.
Whenever I tried to sit down and write for myself, the empty page seemed to mock me.
What used to feel like a sandbox for ideas now felt heavy and immovable.
Before I realized it, I was nearly finished with college and had somehow lost many of the hobbies that had once made me feel like myself.
finding my way back to writing
At the beginning of this year, I made a simple New Year’s resolution: rediscover what I loved.
Writing was at the top of the list.
My roommate had joined Her Campus earlier in the year and encouraged me to apply. The idea of writing about topics I genuinely cared about felt refreshing. Instead of forcing my thoughts into academic formats, I could explore reflection, storytelling, and ideas that mattered to me.
Slowly, writing began to feel enjoyable again.
The blank page stopped feeling intimidating. It started feeling like possibility.
why writing still matters
My love of writing ultimately comes from the power of words.
Sometimes our thoughts feel overwhelming when they exist only inside our heads. Writing them down creates distance. Problems that once felt impossible begin to look manageable when broken into smaller pieces.
Stories also connect people. Just like music, writing can put emotions into words that we didn’t know how to express.
Writing has preserved human history for thousands of years. Through journals, letters, articles, and books, we can understand the lives of people who came before us.
That’s part of why Nellie Bly’s story resonated with me so much. Amid the seriousness of her investigation, she once described having to cover her mouth with a handkerchief because she was giggling at the absurdity of pretending to be insane. Moments like this remind us that history is not just abstract events and numbers. It is people.
a reminder for anyone who once loved something creative
Maybe you used to draw, play music, or write stories in the margins of your notebooks.
Growing up often pushes those things aside. Responsibilities grow, schedules fill up, and creativity becomes something we tell ourselves we’ll come back to later.
But creativity rarely disappears entirely.
Sometimes it just gets buried.
And sometimes all it takes is one opportunity: a blank page, a new idea, or a small step to remember why you loved it in the first place.