Why I Stepped Away from Writing—and What I Found in the Silence

Three months ago, I closed my laptop and walked away. I didn’t make an announcement. I didn’t tell my readers I was taking a break. I simply stopped writing. At first, I wondered if I was losing a part of myself. Writing has been woven into my life for decades. It has helped me process childhood trauma, the loss of people I have loved, and the long, winding journey toward healing. Whenever life became difficult, I wrote. Whenever I discovered something worth sharing, I wrote. But this time felt different. For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t need to find the words. I needed to live them. After nearly thirty years working in the mental health field, I retired. It wasn’t an impulsive decision. It had been quietly unfolding for some time.

While I will always care deeply about the work, I realized that the passion that had carried me for decades had changed. Retirement didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like making space for a new beginning. Instead of trying to fill every empty hour with another project, I gave myself permission to simply breathe. That was harder than I expected. For years, productivity had quietly become my measure of a good day. If I wasn’t writing, creating, solving problems, or helping someone, I often felt as though I should be doing more. Then life slowed me down anyway. My back reminded me. Then my knee reminded me. There were mornings when even a simple walk required patience instead of determination. Those weren’t the plans I had made for myself, but perhaps they were exactly the lessons I needed. Aspen, my faithful companion, became my daily reminder that life doesn’t have to be rushed. She didn’t care whether I had written a blog post or answered another email. She was perfectly content with a walk around the block, a few extra minutes outside, or simply sitting beside me while I enjoyed my morning coffee. She was living in the present. I was learning how. There was grief, too. This fall, I’ll travel to Telluride to scatter Randy’s ashes in the mountains. As I began planning that journey, I realized grief doesn’t disappear because time passes. It changes shape. It softens around the edges. Eventually, it begins to sit beside gratitude instead of replacing it.

Somewhere during those quiet months, another unexpected gift arrived.

I discovered how much joy I was finding in building Colorado Local Businesses.

It didn’t feel like work. It felt creative. Curious. Hopeful. After years of carrying the emotional weight that often comes with mental health work, it was refreshing to build something that simply celebrated the people, places, and businesses that make Colorado such a wonderful place to call home. Perhaps that’s what this season has been about. Not becoming someone new.

Remembering the parts of myself that had been patiently waiting beneath decades of responsibility. When I stopped writing, I thought I was stepping away from something I loved.

Instead, I found something I had been missing. Stillness. Contentment. Space to breathe. I no longer believe every season of life is meant for producing. Some seasons are meant for healing. Some are meant for grieving.

Some are meant for rediscovering joy. And some are simply meant for sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee, watching the morning unfold, grateful that there is nowhere else you need to be.

So yes…

I’m writing again.

Not because I felt pressure to return. But because the silence has given me something worth saying.

If you’re in a season that feels slower than the one before it, don’t rush through it. The world will tell you to keep moving. Your soul may be asking you to pause.

I’ve learned it’s often worth listening.