I just realized the other day that on November 13 it’s going to mark a year since my first essay was published by Full Grown People.  That was the day that I started to dip my toes back into writing and to take it — and myself — seriously.

I guess I have always been a writer, albeit one that doesn’t write. So maybe that doesn’t count. But I look back on this year and part of me wants to yell “why haven’t you done this earlier!” and part of me is just happy that I finally got to this point, where I feel confident(ish), happy, and proud to be writing. Maybe I just wasn’t ready before. Maybe I didn’t have anything important to say before.

I have written more in this past year than ever before and I hope my streak will continue. I am in fear every day that my pen will dry up, that inspiration will leave me, that my confidence and enthusiasm will vanish. I don’t think they will, but who knows where the magic of writing comes from and who knows what it is that really keeps it nearby? I certainly don’t.

If you would have told me a year ago that my writing will appear in The Washington Post and The New York Times, I would have laughed at you. But both of those things happened and I hope they will happen again. And I hope that even bigger things will happen to, and because of my writing. I guess maybe that’s what changed over the past year — that I am allowing myself to think big, outside of my comfort zone, outside of what I once thought was possible. Because apparently, anything is possible.

Some of my favorites from the past year:

Young Love

I’m letting my son be in love

Five Things I Learned About Love and Life from Having a Crush on Benedict Cumberbatch

My Complicated Relationship with My Jewishness and What It Means for My Son