Sunday, March 29th, 2026

Sunday Sanctuary | Dear Friend of the Page

When You Are Writing Underwater

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Dear Friend of the Page,

This week, something new began.

A job. A rhythm. A set of expectations that ask me to show up, to learn, to move forward. Maybe you, too, are entering new routines or experiencing the pressure of fresh demands that ask you to adapt, to hold steady, to be present. If so, you are not alone.

At the same time, I am carrying grief that makes everything act like it is happening underwater.

slowed, muted, slightly out of reach.

I am here.

And I am not fully here.

Both are true.

There is a particular kind of bewilderment that comes when life does not pause to honor what you are carrying.

Morning still comes.

Emails still arrive.

People still expect your voice to sound like itself.

But grief changes the body first.

It softens the edges of time.

It alters breath.

It makes even simple things feel distant.

And so the question becomes:

What does it mean to keep writing when you are not standing on solid ground?

Sometimes, it might be as simple as jotting down a single word that holds how you feel. Other times, it could be describing an image that dwells with you, a moment from your day that remains. Even this tiny act is writing. Each tender gesture toward the page can be enough, especially when the ground is quaking beneath you.

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I think here of Toni Morrison, who once said:

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work.”

Not when things are settled.

Not when the voice feels clear and uninterrupted.

But now.

When the world has shifted.

When the self is rearranging.

When language feels harder to reach.

But I wish to be careful here.

Because “go to work” does not mean push past yourself.

It does not mean you perform strength.

It does not mean pretend you are untouched.

It means a quieter thing.

It means: stay in a relationship with the page, even here. It might mean re-reading something you wrote before, letting your pen wander in small doodles, jotting stray words, or simply sitting quietly with a blank page. Each of these ways keeps the connection alive, no matter what form it takes.

So today, writing might look different.

It might look like:

• One sentence written slowly

• The fragment that does not resolve

• A truth that arrives without explanation

It might sound like:

“I am here, even as everything feels far away.”

And that is enough. It is also enough to step away from the page when you need to. Resting, pausing, or taking breaks from writing are part of the process. Permit yourself to honor what your body and heart ask for in this moment.

There are times when you have to see yourself whole and healthy, even when trauma tells a different story.

And there are also times when the work is to honor where you are, without turning away from it.

Now is one of those times.

If you are reading this and you also feel like you are moving through water,

slower than you want, quieter than you remember,

You are not outside of the work.

You are inside a different part of it.

Today, do not ask yourself for brilliance.

Ask for presence.

Come to the page as you are.

Even if “as you are” is tired.

Even if it is uncertain.

Even if it is still learning how to breathe again.

We are Friends of the Page, and we write the work forward.

If you would like to share, I would love to hear how you are tending your writing—or simply how you are doing—in this moment. Even a single word or note is welcome. However you choose to show up, your presence matters here.🕯