When I was ten years old, my favorite thing to do was to sit at a desk with a stack of blank paper and write stories. I would spend hours coming up with ideas and characters, sketching them out before excitedly presenting the completed stories to my parents.

My house is still full of boxes containing the stacks of stories I used to write, notebooks I used to fill with poems and ideas—but the only writing I have done in the past few years has been for assignments from school.

Over the years, it seemed as though my passion for writing had dimmed. Even though I sat down to write far less than I used to, I knew there was still a huge part of me that loved the idea of spending hours with a stack of empty sheets of paper to fill. For some reason, there was something holding me back from letting my creativity run wild like it used to.

Maybe it was the fact that I was scared of discovering that, deep down, I wasn’t as good a writer as I thought I was. For years, my family members had been asking me why I wasn’t writing anymore, reminding me how much they loved the stories and poems and essays I used to send them. My friends knew I loved to write, but many of them had never even read anything I had written. When my mother would tell me she missed reading things I had created, I told her the only writing I enjoyed doing was in my own private journal.

It wasn’t that I had stopped writing, but that I had stopped doing it publicly. Instead of presenting my written work to my parents, my relationship with writing had become far more private and personal. I found that I could only bring myself to write when I felt exceptionally sad or stressed, which was when I would pour all of my emotions out onto the pages of my journal. Rather than a hobby, my writing had become a release.

Though it had become much harder for me to do it, when I actually sat down and forced myself to write, it was always incredibly rewarding. I loved the feeling of creating something I was proud of, and it was even more worthwhile to be able to show my work to my parents like I used to. While I couldn’t bring myself to spend hours at my desk like I once could, letting my creativity flow and putting it out on paper without thinking twice, I knew all I needed was some motivation to get there.

Writing has always been something I’ve loved to do, and it is still one of my favorite ways to pass the time. Though my relationship with writing has wavered over the years, evolving from a joyous activity to one tainted by the pressure to produce something I’m proud of, it has never ceased to provide me with the creative outlet I deeply need.

The necessary push to get me to my desk with paper and pen may have changed from childlike amusement to a release of tension, I know that when I finally sit down and force myself to write, it’s always worth it.