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Looking back on my writing, I recognize that I’ve written mostly for a reading eye other than my own. I’ve equivocated, held back, not taken too many chances. I’m not happy about this revelation.

I strongly believe in the a connection between self-expression and mental health. Deeply in debt at one point, I couldn’t see any way out of the situation. One morning, I struggled to get my grumpy, miserable self out of bed and showered. “You aren’t writing, are you,” my husband said. It was a statement, not a question.

The first time I realized that holding back what I want to say/write can cause me physical distress was when a friend offered me a Reiki session. I sat in silence while she did her work. After the session, she asked if I’d been having issues with my throat. She suggested this could be because I was holding in something important that I wanted or needed to express.

Even if you’ve never dreamed of being a full-time writer, the belief that art is risky has likely still affected you in some way. Many cultures buy into the idea of the “starving artist,” that it’s impossible to have a fruitful and abundant life as an artist of any kind. It’s safer to be an accountant, a teacher, a grocery store clerk… any of the thousands of traditional jobs that give us a regular paycheck, that give us the illusion of security.

Watching the three-part PBS series Southern Storytellers had me thinking a lot about what it means to me to be from the South, how much of my identity is tied to this place.