Why I Write
“Why do you write?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked more than once, and every time, I pause. Not because I don’t know, but because the answer feels too big to squeeze into a neat sentence. Writing has been so many things for me. A refuge, a coping mechanism, a bridge to other people, and a mirror I hold up to myself. The truth is, I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, long before I thought to call myself a “writer.”
For as long as I can remember, words have been my safe place. They were the soft corner of the world I could retreat to, the place where everything made sense. Stories gave structure to a world that often felt too big, too loud, and too unpredictable. Reading wasn’t just entertainment, it was a way to feel steady. When everything around me was too chaotic, books gave me a space that stayed calm. In stories, there was always a beginning, middle, and end. Characters had arcs. Problems had solutions. There was comfort in that predictability, a sense of order I couldn’t always find in real life. I think that’s what first drew me to words: they could be arranged. They could be shaped into something meaningful. Reading showed me that language had weight and rhythm and intention, that words could open doors or close them. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was studying storytelling as a child, learning pacing, voice, and structure just by living inside books for so many hours.
Writing came next, almost instinctively. I started with simple things, scribbled thoughts, half-finished poems, bits of stories that never made it past a paragraph. I wasn’t writing for anyone else. I wasn’t trying to be profound or impressive. Writing was simply a way to untangle my own mind. When I put words on a page, my thoughts slowed down enough to see them clearly. Sentences became like stepping stones across a stream, one small way forward at a time. My notebooks were messy and private, filled with sketches of ideas and raw feelings. Writing was a tool for survival, a way to map out my inner world when I couldn’t quite express myself out loud. It was less about artistry and more about relief.
But it wasn’t until I started explaining science to my grandmother that I realized how powerful words could be. For my grandparents, English wasn’t always the most comfortable language, and medical terms felt even more foreign. I had fallen in love with science early on, so I naturally became the “translator” whenever we faced complicated health information. Doctor’s notes, test results, and pamphlets were overwhelming for her, but for me, they were puzzles to solve. I’d reframe them in plain language, breaking things down piece by piece until they felt less intimidating. Those moments on our couch, with my legs slung over my grandmother lap and a pile of reports on the table, were my first real lessons in communicating with empathy. I learned that clarity wasn’t about dumbing things down; it was about respect. It was about recognizing that understanding something as deeply personal as your health is a kind of power, and that good language could help someone feel less afraid.
I didn’t know it then, but those early lessons would guide almost everything I’ve done since. That instinct to simplify, to bridge gaps, has stayed with me. My fascination with science grew alongside my love of words. I studied biology and genetics not because I was chasing a title but because I wanted to understand the stories science held, the way a single gene could change a life, the way research could ripple through entire families. Science, to me, has always been deeply human. Every lab result represents someone’s anxiety. Every clinical trial is filled with real people making brave decisions. Every medical breakthrough has a history of curiosity, persistence, and hope behind it. Writing became the way I connected to all of that. It was how I could take something technical and bring out the beating heart beneath it.
That’s what pulled me to places like Migraine World Summit, where I worked on content designed to help patients see themselves in medical science. There, I learned how powerful it can be for someone to read an article and feel less alone in their pain. Later, at Mediscan, I experienced the deeply personal side of genetic counselling. I saw first-hand how overwhelming medical information could feel when you’re sitting on the patient side of the table, and I felt even more driven to make complex science understandable. Each role deepened my respect for communication: it’s not just about sharing information but about helping people feel seen and heard.
Now, at Klarity, I carry those lessons into every piece I write. Whether it’s a brief article or a detailed explainer, I imagine my grandmother reading over my shoulder. If she’d understand it, if she’d feel empowered by it, then I know I’ve done my job. That’s the standard I hold myself to: writing that makes people feel like they’re being spoken to, not spoken at.
Through all of this, writing has been the thread tying everything together. It’s been there through late nights of research, through the emotional weight of patient stories, through the challenge of translating complexity into clarity. Writing isn’t a skill I use; it’s the lens through which I experience the world. It’s how I process, how I connect, and how I contribute.
I don’t write because I have everything figured out. I write because I don’t. Writing is how I make sense of uncertainty. It’s where I go to find calm, to slow down, to connect with others. It’s where I learned empathy and where I continue to practice it. Some people meditate; I write. When I sit down to write, the world gets a little quieter. I can take the chaos of a day, news headlines, conversations, worries, questions, and distil it into something I can hold.
Over the years, writing has evolved from a private coping mechanism into a way of serving others. It’s one thing to write for yourself, and another to write for someone who needs your words. That shift changed me. I learned that good writing isn’t about sounding smart or showing off what you know. It’s about connection. It’s about building a bridge so someone else can cross over. I often think back to those afternoons at home, the soft hum of a fan in the background, my grandmother patiently waiting for me to explain another doctor’s note. She trusted me not just to get the information right but to make it understandable. That trust is sacred. It’s a reminder that words carry weight. They can comfort or confuse, empower or overwhelm. They can either be a wall or a door.
That’s why I write: to create doors. To make things easier, clearer, kinder. To take something that feels overwhelming and turn it into something someone can hold without fear.
Words saved me first. Now, they’re how I try to make the complicated a little clearer for someone else. Writing is my way of giving back, to the kid I was, to the grandmother who trusted me, and to anyone who might be searching for clarity in a confusing moment.
That’s why I write.