THE SPARK THAT NEVER DIED

Some passions don’t fade, they simply wait in the quiet corners of your heart, patient and persistent, until you find your way back to them. For me, that passion was writing.

Back in 2016–17, I came across someone who changed the way I looked at words — TheNovembersChild, who, in recent years, is better known by her real name, Romila. I’m sure many of you reading this post know her (from blogchatter, Twitter, Instagram, Linkedin and Blogging challenges), have read her blogs or books, or perhaps even call her a friend. She’s one of those rare voices whose words seem to breathe, gentle yet powerful, deeply personal yet universally resonant. Her writing didn’t just tell stories; it felt them.

Through long conversations and shared thoughts, I began to learn the art she lived so effortlessly. I discovered how emotions could take shape through words, how silence could find rhythm on paper. Writing soon became my sanctuary — a quiet, sacred space where I could be honest, vulnerable, and endlessly creative.

Then life, in its usual unpredictable rhythm, took over. Work grew heavier, responsibilities piled up, and a demanding project slowly pulled me away from the page. My desk gathered dust, my notebooks stayed closed, and the words that once flowed with ease became harder to find. Somewhere in that blur, I also lost touch with her. What remained was an echo — of friendship, inspiration, and a version of myself I’d tucked away.

But the heart remembers what it loves. Even in my busiest days, I felt the pull — the quiet urge to write again. I tried a few times, opening blank pages only to close them in frustration. The words wouldn’t come. It felt like I had forgotten my own language.

And then, one day, while scrolling through old notes, I stumbled upon something I had written — it instantly reminded me of Romila's voice, her essence and her fearless approach to writing which encouraged me in the past to write just like how she does, without FEAR. That small spark was enough. I picked up my pen again, hesitantly at first. The words came slow, shaky, and unpolished but they came. And when they did, I felt a familiar sense of belonging. I was home again - back to writing, back to myself.

Today, as I sit here reflecting, I realize how deeply grateful I am Romila for being that catalyst years ago, and for continuing to inspire, even from afar. If not for her, I might have never rediscovered this part of me that feels most alive.

This time, I’m not letting go.

Because writing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025 prompt 'something you once gave up but returned to.'