By the lovely Mai Mercado, on her journey of uncovering the art of writing, its transformative impact on her actions, self-awareness and newfound sense of purpose.
estimated reading time: 6 mins
Amid the chaos, confusion and multiplicity of narratives dividing the world today, what can we do to help each other? This was the lingering question in my head when I woke up this morning. To my surprise and without batting an eyelash, I knew what I was going to do:
I am going to write.
I thought,
I will allow myself to write as a way of problem solving, or to write as a way of helping the world heal.
writing as discovery
As a child, I thought I was set to become an orator, debater, TED talk host, or resource speaker. My first declamation piece in Nursery was “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe.” My parents and teachers were surprised that I had it memorized when I was meant to present it weeks later at the school’s culminating activity. My then four-year-old self committed the nursery rhyme to memory after one night.
Throughout my elementary and high school, I was top-of-mind when it came to speaking engagements. It came natural to me. My brother, who was eight years my senior, was fond of watching American TV series and I guessed I had unwittingly assimilated the correct pronunciation and enunciation of words overtime.
It wasn’t until late in highschool when an interest in writing started growing on me. At the time we had the green A4 booklets which were called formal theme books. Our teachers would ask us to write on a topic periodically. It was then when I became familiar with the inner workings of the written word and fell in love with the process.
While I was having a hard time adjusting to college life, I found consolation in writing. There were professors who during class discussions would force me to form an opinion on different topics even when I wasn’t ready yet. It was as if having no stand on certain issues is an abomination. It was as if I was committing sin if I didn’t make up my mind and put my foot down.
It was writing that allowed me to surface what mattered to me. When I’m writing, I don’t feel rushed. It was more akin to flow where the words would magically appear one after the other. I felt as if the more I expressed myself through writing, the more I allowed my authentic self to emerge. When writing, it’s okay to say that I still have so many questions that are left unanswered. I can be free to postpone my answers and write about what isn’t clear to me. I don’t have to be an expert. I can just be the silent companion who does not pass judgment or tries to fix things. Writing affords me the space I need to take my time in forming my opinions and be free to share them once the dust settles.
writing and becoming
A little over a year ago, when I learned that I was going to be a mother, it was imperative that I wrote about it. Since the day the pregnancy strip drew two lines and after every prenatal checkup and new experience only motherhood could make me go through, I would write about it in a letter to my child. Through those letters, I became more courageous and hopeful. It helped me cultivate the right perspective that all the care and sacrifices that we took upon as expectant parents were already professions of love to the child we were so eager to meet.
When I felt that I needed to rest after several years in the training industry, facilitating in-classroom workshops for teachers and learning leaders, it was writing that allowed me to continue making a living. Writing welcomed me and taught me to trust the process.
What if I could heal the world by writing, just as writing has been helping me to heal? What if I could spare the world from pain by writing? What if the path to healing isn’t in running away from pain, but in turning my gaze to it and seeking to understand what it’s trying to tell me?
writing as a way to heal
When I was younger I wanted to grow up fast so I could do the things adults were allowed to do—wear makeup, wear heels, go out till late at night, buy the things I want, and talk about anything I want. I thought I had to be big enough for the big things. Even today, I’m still tempted to think that I need to have everything that I need and become all the versions of myself that I wanted to become in order to bring about significant change and to heal all the pain I want to heal. I grew up and I learned that I feel more confident in sneakers than in heels, that mortgages take the fun out of adulting, and that there is no silver bullet to the world’s problems. And that’s okay.
I can take out my journal. I can write about the things that are going well. I can write about how violence will never make sense to me. I can cook dinner. I can hug the people whom I love. I can listen to a story. I can laugh at jokes. I can sing a song. I can be kind to a stranger. I can say a prayer and be one with God. There is some good I can do right now, and I’m making this teeny tiny pocket of the world better because of it.