Writing Brings Me Joy
Not just because I like it. But because it clears my head. There’s a kind of peace that comes from getting the noise out and seeing it on the page.
I used to say, “Outta my head and onto paper.” That still rings true. These days, most of my writing starts digitally. However, the truth is that I still love printing out what I write.
Journaling with a pen on paper is more than therapy. It is a way to allow your hand to write without having to think about it. If anything, it's a way for your soul to speak without over-editing.
If you're like me, you write and edit and edit and edit until you've stripped the soul out of the written word.
As I write this during my early morning hours, between wake and sleep, when all things are possible, I choose to silence my inner editor.
So get off my shoulder, Perfection Witch. I’ve got joy to reclaim.
There’s something sacred about holding your words in your hand and feeling the weight of printed paper. Seeing it stacked, page after page. It reminds me that what I’ve lived through is real. And it matters.
My husband calls me the Backup Queen. He’s not wrong.
I keep getting bigger external drives. I label folders as if I were archiving a museum. I store printed versions in plastic bins. It’s a running joke in our house, but behind the laugh is something deeper.
I’ve lost things before. Words. Photos. Chapters of my life. Some disappeared with hard drive failures. Some disappeared in ways that had nothing to do with technology.
Missing Pieces
I shy away from saying that I lost huge chunks of memory when I had my massive brain stroke in 2013, but I did.
Yesterday, while transporting my husband to a scheduled dental appointment, he kept talking about the huge aquarium we visited in Long Beach, California, in 2000.
He recalled the massive glass wall we looked through to experience life underwater, from tiny seahorses flitting like hummingbirds to large sharks swimming slowly by.
He spoke of how cool it was when we went up to the shallow “touch pool” where we leaned over the wall and touched fiddler rays and the gentle sharks. He couldn't remember the odd name of the sharks, though.
I kept asking, “Tell me more about that,” until I said, “Are you sure we went to that aquarium?”
“Yes, I'm sure, and I remember it vividly,” he said.
I sighed. It felt like he was recalling a movie I had missed entirely.
That’s when it hit me — memory isn’t just fragile. It’s selective. And that’s another reason I write and back things up. Because some things only survive if we put them in print.
When Memory Fades, Paper Remembers
I've deleted several words from my vocabulary list. Forget and forgot are two. When I'm trying to find a word that eludes me, today I say, “I've temporarily mislaid a word. Would you please help me find it?”
Whether standing on a stage or hosting on Zoom, the participants are eager to help. So is my husband.
It's comforting to know that we no longer have to be perfect. Transparency outshines perfection.
Now, I back up entirely digitally. Twice.
As times changed, I migrated my Gmail to Google Workspace, which expanded my Google Drive, my preferred cloud storage.
But that’s just the surface.
The deeper reason I write — and keep writing — is to share the lessons I’ve learned. The ones I paid for. Some have money. Some with my reputation. Some with years of my life.
On January 26, 2025, I shared a confession in a Substack post. I said it publicly for the first time: I’m a convicted felon.
Even writing that now still brings up a flicker of shame. I’ve done the work. I’ve cleared much of the emotional debris. But some shadows linger.
And I get why.
Because there was a moment. A real, cinematic moment. I looked up into a torrential downpour in Florida. I was standing in front of the belongings that my crew had carried to the curb as part of a foreclosure eviction. It was legal. But it felt wrong.
Tarps flapped in the wind. The family’s furniture and memories were piled high, and everything was getting soaked. I was drenched too, but it wasn’t the rain that broke me. It was the scream that came next.
“I WANT OUT!”
I didn’t whisper. I screamed it into the storm!
It wasn’t a quiet prayer or a subtle manifestation. It was a full-body, fed-up demand to the universe.
And the universe delivered.
Not in the way I imagined. However, looking back, I believe I may have subconsciously manifested that arrest. I think I called it in.
Not because I wanted to be taken down, but because I needed a way out. I couldn’t keep living that version of my life. And when we don’t exit consciously, life finds a way to kick us through the side door and to the curb.
Today, with the monumental layoffs and firings, I wonder if much of that is being manifested by workers hating their current workplace.
Reflecting on my situation back then, I had no work-life balance. I bet that's the underlying circumstance today.
Why I Keep Writing
Because when my writing helps someone else realize and recognize the moment before the storm hits, they have the opportunity to choose differently.
I don’t write for pity. I write to pass on what I’ve learned. The insights. The questions. The pain that eventually gave way to peace.
Writing is how I make sense of things.
It’s how I turn regret into a teaching opportunity. It’s how I honor the people who stood beside me when I wasn’t proud of who I was. And it’s how I speak to the version of me who still sometimes needs reminding:
“You’ve come a long way, and you deserve to celebrate who you are!”
When people ask me if it feels narcissistic to print my own words, I smile.
It feels sacred. Not selfish.
Because I know what it’s like to be drowning in noise, unsure which voice to trust. And when I see my truth on the page, in black and white, I can finally breathe.
That’s why I don’t just write and move on. I revisit. I underline. I scribble notes in the margins.
Because these aren’t just stories. They’re signposts. Milestones. They’re proof that survival turned into wisdom and can thrive.
And more than anything, I hope my words give someone else permission to slow down. To write their truth. To ask for help before the storm decides for them.
I hope this speaks directly to you.
There’s no diploma for surviving. No certificate for realigning your life after everything breaks.
But there are pages — hundreds and hundreds of pages.
And I’m still printing them.
Regardless of where you are in your life, know that I love you just the way that you are.
Here and now in this moment, consider yourself hugged,
Donna
PS: Ink on paper turns experience into legacy. That is why I created my MindShifting™ technology — so the lessons take root. They settle in your body, guide your choices, and surface when you are under pressure.
If you're leading a team, navigating conflict, or trying to reach the final table, DM me for a complimentary get-acquainted session.
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