The Role of Healing in Writing
I often return to the act of writing not as a profession, not even as an art form, but as an instinct. For me, writing has always been less about producing and more about surviving. Less about publishing and more about healing. When people ask me why I write, I struggle with simple answers. Do I write because I want to communicate? Because I love words? Because I want to be read? All of that is true, but not the whole truth. The truth, whispered and almost private, is this: I write because writing saves me. Again and again.
Writing as First Aid
There are moments in life when you don’t know whom to talk to. Even those who love you deeply can’t hold your pain the way you need them to. It isn’t because they don’t want to; it’s because some emotions are too heavy to hand over. Some wounds are too private to expose in conversation. In such moments, writing becomes the safest place.
I remember the first time I used writing as first aid. I was in college, bruised by a heartbreak that felt larger than life. The campus was buzzing with chatter, friends were around, and yet inside, I felt like a hollow drum. I sat down with a notebook and began to write—not poetry, not story, not even coherent sentences. Just fragments: “Why me? Why this? When will it stop hurting?” Page after page, I poured it out.
By the end of the exercise, nothing had changed externally. He hadn’t called back. The world hadn’t grown kinder. But I had changed. My breathing was steadier, my chest lighter. Writing hadn’t solved my problem, but it had cleaned the wound. It was the antiseptic I needed before the real healing could begin.
Stories as Bandages
Over time, I realised that stories are like bandages. They may not erase the scar, but they protect the wound until it stops bleeding. When I write a story—whether it is fiction, a journal entry, or a personal essay—I am wrapping something fragile in words, covering it gently, and allowing it to heal under that covering.
Think about the countless stories in Indian literature that have emerged from pain:
Ismat Chughtai’s bold explorations of women’s desires.
Kamala Das’s confessional poetry that bared her vulnerabilities without shame.
Even Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, which pulses with the ache of forbidden love and fractured childhoods.
Each of these works carries within it the author’s scars. Yet when we read them, they become something else—medicine not just for the writer, but for us, the readers. Their personal healing becomes collective healing.
The Mirror of Writing
One of the most painful yet powerful aspects of writing is how it forces you to face yourself. Writing is a mirror, but unlike the one on your wall, it doesn’t reflect your clothes or your makeup. It reflects your rawest truths.
When I sit down to write honestly, I cannot escape myself. I see my pettiness, my jealousy, my anger. I also see my resilience, my tenderness, my capacity to love. This self-confrontation can be uncomfortable. At times, I have torn pages, deleted drafts, or shut the notebook in frustration. But every time I return, I find that looking into this mirror is exactly what I need.
Healing, after all, begins with recognition. You cannot heal a wound you pretend doesn’t exist. Writing makes denial impossible. In that way, it is often the first step toward wholeness.
Writing as a Safe Rebellion
In our South Asian upbringing, many of us are trained to swallow pain quietly. To endure. To adjust. We are taught that certain topics like mental health, sexuality, or loneliness are shameful or better left unspoken. But writing offers a safe rebellion.
On the page, I can say what I cannot say at the dinner table. I can admit to sadness without being told to be strong. I can question cultural expectations without being silenced. The act of writing itself becomes an assertion: My truth matters. My feelings deserve space.
I think of Ratna Pathak Shah’s reflection about role models, that as a girl, she longed for strong, independent women to look up to, not just weeping heroines. For me, writing has been that role model. A silent mentor that whispers,
“You are allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel.”
The Rhythm of Healing
Healing is not linear. Anyone who has dealt with grief or trauma knows this. Some days, you think you’re fine; the next, you are undone by a song, a smell, or a memory. Writing respects this rhythm. It doesn’t demand order.
When I write, I don’t need to present a neat beginning, middle, and end. I can begin in the middle of chaos, circle back, leap forward, repeat myself. Writing allows me to honour the messy rhythm of healing. And strangely, in giving myself permission to be messy on the page, I often find clarity.
Writing for Others, Healing the Self
There is also a paradox: sometimes, when I write for others, I heal myself the most. When I write a column, a review, or even a social media post, I may be speaking outward. Yet the act of shaping my thoughts for someone else often forces me to understand them better.
I have received messages from readers saying, “This is exactly what I felt but couldn’t put into words.” Those words are gifts. Because they remind me that healing is not a solitary act. By naming my wounds, I give others the language to name theirs. By tracing my journey, I create a map for someone else.
The Physicality of Writing
Healing is not only emotional; it is physical. Anyone who has experienced anxiety knows how the body reacts: racing heart, clenched jaw, restless limbs. Writing calms the body. There is something deeply grounding about the scratch of a pen on paper, the click of keys on a keyboard, the rhythm of words forming line after line.
In those moments, I am not scattered. I am present. My thoughts, instead of spiralling inward, flow outward. This shift is subtle but profound. It transforms pain into process, chaos into creation.
Writing as a Ritual
Over the years, writing has become a ritual of healing for me. Some people meditate. Some pray. I write. I light a candle, open a notebook, and let the words spill. Sometimes it is gratitude. Sometimes it is rage. Sometimes it is a silly anecdote about the day. What matters is not the content, but the consistency.
Healing needs repetition. Just as a wound needs daily cleaning, the heart needs regular tending. Writing, for me, is that daily tending. It keeps the infection of despair from setting in.
The Limits of Writing
And yet, I must be honest: writing does not heal everything. It cannot replace therapy, friendship, or community. It cannot change circumstances. What it can do is hold us while we navigate those things. Writing is not the cure, but it is a companion to the cure.
There are times I have written endlessly about a problem, and still needed to seek help. There are times I have written and felt nothing but exhaustion. Healing is complex, and writing is only one thread in its fabric. But it is a thread I cannot imagine my life without.
Why I Continue
So why do I continue to write? Because in every wound I have carried—loss, heartbreak, disappointment, even joy turned bittersweet—writing has been there. It has been my first aid, my bandage, my mirror, my rebellion, my ritual.
And perhaps most importantly, it has been my way of transforming pain into meaning. If suffering is inevitable, then meaning is our way of surviving it. Writing gives me that meaning. It says: this happened, and it hurt, but it also taught me, and now it can touch others.
In that sense, writing is alchemy. It takes the raw ore of our experiences and turns it into something precious—not gold, but healing.
In an age of influencers and instant content, it is easy to forget the quiet power of writing. But I believe it remains one of the deepest forms of self-care available to us. Not because it is glamorous, or shareable, or even publishable. But because it is honest.
For me, writing is not about being perfect. It is about being whole. And healing, I have learned, is not about erasing wounds but about carrying them with grace. Writing teaches me that.
Every time I pick up the pen, I am reminded: healing is not out there, waiting for me. It is here, in the act of putting one word after another.
