Writers always say to write daily. I scoffed at that. Sure. Write daily. Full time job? Parenting (sure, they’re both adults…but still…). Wife-ing. Dog-caring (dogravity is a full time job). Choring.

I have my list of reasons for why I can’t write daily. Really. What it comes down to was lack of confidence. I had nothing worth sharing.

But I had experiences worth inscribing. Worth charting down in the collection of journals that have been given to me over the years. And if I really was serious about writing, then I had to start writing.

Weirdly enough, the day I started writing daily was August 7th, 2025. The day my brother died. I know I wrote before the phone call. My entry for that day had nothing to do with my brother’s death. The day after? It was a narrative of the phone call. The recognition that he was gone.

My original goal was to meet the hundred day challenge as set forth by The Book of Alchemy. I doubt that I’ve completed more than ten of the entries. I have been focused on my experiences, how I navigate the world with a conjoined twin sister who is 37 years my junior. My grief is my 16 year old self. She holds all of the emotions that I’ve held back and contained and suppressed over the years. She was my purest emotional self in so many ways. Or, maybe she wasn’t and I’m just doing stream of consciousness writing. Dunno. Don’t care. They’re words and they feel good to write.

For the last couple of days, a friend of mine has been posting “poems of the day” on her Instagram. I don’t know how polished they are, but they are lovely, evocative. She writes about motherhood. About her hopes and dreams for friends. About the existence of being a woman in Amerca right now as political decisions are made on our behalfs. As we push through this world and feel uncertain about where our bare feet land on the path. And what is littering the path. Or there is even a path beneath our feet.

Yesterday, I took on the challenge. I am going to write a poem a day for the next year. Maybe I should just say that I am going to write a poem a day for the next week but that feels pell-mell.

I’ve written two. One is about the sacred geometry of the word no. The other is a metaphoric analysis of walled cities and how they represent my self-doubt.

I am writing daily. Not because of my brother or for my brother. But for me. For my soul. For the fact that I have called myself a writer without writing because I was too damn afraid. I didn’t think I was worthy enough. And no, this is not me imploring you to say something nice to make me feel good about myself.

This is just me writing my daily journal. After I finished writing my daily poem. Which was after I had revised yesterday’s poem which I’ve never done because I’m not good at revising poetry. But I’m going to learn, damn it. I’m going to learn. And then I’m going to continue kicking down these damn walls and walk on my own paths.

Now. What shoes should I wear?