For the women who carry it all and still create.
When I first started writing—really writing, not just pouring secrets into my diary—I didn’t have silence or stillness. I wrote in the thick of things—between dinner and bath time, in the space between my child’s “Mama?” and the next load of laundry. I wrote after hard conversations and before I found the strength to pull myself back together.
I wrote with one hand open.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I had to.
One hand reaching for a pacifier. Sectioning braiding hair. Stirring the pot. Folding towels still warm from the dryer. The other hand? Gripping a pen. Scribbling on whatever I could find. Holding a line I couldn’t afford to lose.
This isn’t romantic. It’s not the “writer’s retreat” kind of writing.
It’s margin-scribbled, late-night, ink-smudged survival.
It’s writing when no one’s watching.
It’s carving out space between the living and the longing.
I write because the stories under my skin won’t let me stay quiet.
Because my daughters and son deserve to see me show up fully—on the page and in life.
I write for the girl I used to be.
The one who didn’t know she had a right to speak her truth.
I write because the stories under my skin won’t leave me alone.
I write for women like me.
Black. Brown. For All Women. Brave. Tired. Tender. Still dreaming.
Writing ain’t always peaceful. But it is sacred.
And so, I write with one hand open.
To hold the chaos.
To hold the hope.
To hold space.
If this spoke to you, hit reply. I’d love to know:
What are you holding while trying to write?
If you’re holding life in one hand and still finding time to write with the other—welcome. You belong here.
—Cynthia Jean Brown
