I recently picked up Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic, and it was like finding the missing puzzle piece I didn’t know I was searching for. In her candid and profound way, she laid bare my deepest fears and desires about writing, wrapping them in words that felt like a balm to my restless mind.

One line, in particular, felt like a jolt of cold water, a wake-up call I hadn’t realized I needed:

“Pure creativity is magnificent expressly because it is the opposite of everything else in life that’s essential or inescapable . . . I find it thrilling. The fact that I get to spend my life making objectively useless things means that I don’t live in a post-apocalyptic dystopia. It means I am not exclusively chained to the grind of mere survival. It means we still have space left in our civilization for the luxuries of imagination and beauty and emotion—and even total frivolousness.”

Gilbert's message was unmistakable: art doesn’t need to carry the weight of the world. Its value lies precisely in its so-called “uselessness.” Creativity isn’t about survival—it’s about freedom, beauty, and joy.

For years, I carried this unspoken burden that my writing needed to matter in some profound way. I felt compelled to create something transformative, something that would change the world. It was an invisible weight that hung over me, whispering questions like, “What’s the point of this? How will it make a difference?” And all too often, those doubts silenced my voice.

The hardest truth to accept was that writing, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t essential. It doesn’t solve hunger, build homes, or keep the lights on. But once I stopped resisting this truth, something unexpected happened: I felt free.

Knowing that nobody’s life depends on what I write has been a revelation. It has taken the pressure off and made space for me to write simply because I love it. It’s not about saving the world—it’s about the joy of putting words on a page.

I still believe in the power of words to shape thoughts and inspire change. But I’ve realized that chasing this lofty purpose can suffocate creativity. Sometimes, the purest creations come when we’re writing for ourselves, free from expectations.

This shift in perspective feels like liberation. Writing doesn’t need to be important to anyone else but me. And with that, I feel a lightness I haven’t known in years.

And so, I’ve decided to write again. Not to change the world, but because I can. Because it makes me happy. Because it’s what I love to do.

How lucky am I to live in a world where I can pour my energy into something as beautifully “useless” as writing—and call it a privilege?

I recently picked up Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic, and it was like finding the missing puzzle piece I didn’t know I was searching for. In her candid and profound way, she laid bare my deepest fears and desires about writing, wrapping them in words that felt like a balm to my restless mind.

One line, in particular, felt like a jolt of cold water, a wake-up call I hadn’t realized I needed:

“Pure creativity is magnificent expressly because it is the opposite of everything else in life that’s essential or inescapable . . . I find it thrilling. The fact that I get to spend my life making objectively useless things means that I don’t live in a post-apocalyptic dystopia. It means I am not exclusively chained to the grind of mere survival. It means we still have space left in our civilization for the luxuries of imagination and beauty and emotion—and even total frivolousness.”

Gilbert's message was unmistakable: art doesn’t need to carry the weight of the world. Its value lies precisely in its so-called “uselessness.” Creativity isn’t about survival—it’s about freedom, beauty, and joy.

For years, I carried this unspoken burden that my writing needed to matter in some profound way. I felt compelled to create something transformative, something that would change the world. It was an invisible weight that hung over me, whispering questions like, “What’s the point of this? How will it make a difference?” And all too often, those doubts silenced my voice.

The hardest truth to accept was that writing, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t essential. It doesn’t solve hunger, build homes, or keep the lights on. But once I stopped resisting this truth, something unexpected happened: I felt free.

Knowing that nobody’s life depends on what I write has been a revelation. It has taken the pressure off and made space for me to write simply because I love it. It’s not about saving the world—it’s about the joy of putting words on a page.

I still believe in the power of words to shape thoughts and inspire change. But I’ve realized that chasing this lofty purpose can suffocate creativity. Sometimes, the purest creations come when we’re writing for ourselves, free from expectations.

This shift in perspective feels like liberation. Writing doesn’t need to be important to anyone else but me. And with that, I feel a lightness I haven’t known in years.

And so, I’ve decided to write again. Not to change the world, but because I can. Because it makes me happy. Because it’s what I love to do.

How lucky am I to live in a world where I can pour my energy into something as beautifully “useless” as writing—and call it a privilege?