Introduction
This reflective essay explores a personal and recurring question that has shaped my academic journey as a college writing student: Why do I turn to writing when life feels overwhelming? Inspired by Jhumpa Lahiri’s essay “Why Italian?” (Lahiri, 2015), this piece uses rhetorical strategies such as repetition, metaphor, and deliberate diction to unpack my complex relationship with writing. By repeatedly posing my central question, employing metaphors like **doors** (borrowed from Lahiri) and my own creation of **weaving a tapestry**, and integrating Lahiri’s distinctive vocabulary such as **obsession**, **solace**, and **transformation**, I aim to delve into the motivations behind my reliance on writing as both an escape and a means of understanding myself. Through this exploration, I reflect on how writing serves as a coping mechanism, a space for control, and a tool for self-discovery, while critically assessing its limitations in addressing deeper personal struggles.
The Persistent Question: Why Writing?
Why do I turn to writing when everything feels chaotic? This question surfaces every time I find myself at my desk late at night, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keys despite looming deadlines or exhaustion. There is a pull—almost a need—to put words on a page, as if doing so might untangle the mess of thoughts in my head. As a college writing student, I have spent countless hours crafting essays, journaling personal reflections, and even scribbling fragments of stories, often when I should be sleeping or addressing more pressing concerns. Yet, I return to this act repeatedly. Why writing, when it often feels like a temporary distraction rather than a solution?
At first, writing presented itself as a door—a metaphor Lahiri uses to describe her engagement with the Italian language as a passage to another world (Lahiri, 2015). For me, writing is a similar escape. It is a threshold I cross when the weight of academic pressure, social expectations, or personal doubts becomes unbearable. I step through this door, and for a while, I am elsewhere—immersed in a narrative of my own making or lost in the precision of structuring an argument. However, much like Lahiri’s evolving relationship with her pursuit, I have come to question whether this door leads me forward or simply keeps me stagnant in a comforting but isolated space.
Writing as Control and Creation
Why writing, when I know it cannot fix everything? One answer lies in the control it offers. Academic life, especially as a writing student, often feels unpredictable—feedback on assignments can be harsh, group projects falter, and self-doubt creeps in about my future as a writer. In contrast, writing provides structure. Crafting a sentence, revising a paragraph, or completing a draft offers a sense of progress that real life rarely mirrors. As Lahiri describes her **obsession** with Italian as a driving force (Lahiri, 2015), I find myself similarly consumed by the need to perfect a piece of writing. This **obsession** is not always healthy, but it grounds me when other aspects of life feel unmanageable.
Moreover, writing becomes a process of creation, akin to weaving a tapestry. Each word is a thread, each sentence a pattern, slowly forming a larger picture that makes sense of my fragmented emotions or ideas. This metaphor captures the deliberate, sometimes painstaking effort of writing, where I can weave together disparate thoughts into something cohesive. Unlike the fleeting distractions of social media or television, writing allows me to build something tangible—a record of my mind at a particular moment. Indeed, this act of creation offers a temporary solace, another term from Lahiri (2015), a quiet relief from the noise of everyday struggles. Yet, I must acknowledge that this solace is often fleeting; the tapestry I weave might distract me, but it does not mend the underlying tears in my life.
The Illusion of Progress
Why writing, if the progress it offers is sometimes illusory? While writing provides a sense of achievement—completing an essay or receiving a positive comment from a tutor—it often masks deeper issues. I can spend hours polishing a piece, feeling a rush of satisfaction, only to return to the same anxieties I sought to escape. This mirrors Lahiri’s reflection on language learning as a **transformation** (Lahiri, 2015), a process that reshapes identity but does not necessarily resolve internal conflicts. For me, writing is a **transformation** of thought into form, yet it does not always translate into personal growth. I wonder if, by hiding behind words, I am avoiding the harder work of confronting my fears directly.
Research on expressive writing suggests that it can serve as a therapeutic tool, helping individuals process emotions and reduce stress (Pennebaker, 1997). However, this benefit is not universal. For some, including myself at times, writing risks becoming a form of rumination, where negative thoughts are revisited rather than resolved (Nolen-Hoeksema et al., 2008). Thus, while writing offers a temporary reprieve, I must critically assess whether it is a sustainable solution or merely a crutch that delays inevitable reckoning with my challenges.
Writing as Connection and Isolation
Why writing, when it both connects and isolates me? On one hand, writing as a college student allows me to connect with others through shared ideas. Crafting an argument in an essay or sharing a personal reflection in a workshop creates a bridge to peers and tutors, fostering a sense of community. On the other hand, much of my writing—especially late-night journaling or unpublished drafts—occurs in solitude. This duality echoes Lahiri’s journey with Italian, which both connects her to a new culture and isolates her in a personal, almost private pursuit (Lahiri, 2015). Writing, then, is a paradoxical act: it opens a **door** to expression but often closes others, keeping me locked in my own head.
Furthermore, the metaphor of weaving a tapestry extends here as well. While the act of weaving can produce something beautiful to share with others, it is inherently a solitary task. I weave alone, and though the end product might be admired, the process isolates me from real-time human connection. This tension raises questions about whether writing truly fulfills my need for belonging or simply deepens my retreat from the world.
Conclusion
In reflecting on the recurring question—Why do I turn to writing when life feels overwhelming?—I have uncovered a complex relationship with this practice. Writing serves as a **door** to escape and a means of control, offering **solace** amid chaos, driven by an **obsession** for structure, and enacting a **transformation** of raw emotion into crafted expression. Yet, through the metaphor of **weaving a tapestry**, I also recognize its limitations: it creates temporary beauty but does not always mend deeper wounds, sometimes isolating me further. While research highlights writing’s potential therapeutic benefits (Pennebaker, 1997), it also warns of its risks as a form of avoidance (Nolen-Hoeksema et al., 2008). Ultimately, writing is neither wholly a problem nor a solution; it is a space where I grapple with myself, a tool for understanding that demands critical awareness of its boundaries. As I continue my journey as a writing student, I must strive to balance this **obsession** with engagement in the broader world, ensuring that the **doors** I open through words do not become barriers to genuine growth.
References
- Lahiri, J. (2015) Teach Yourself Italian. The New Yorker, 7 December. Available at: Teach Yourself Italian.
- Nolen-Hoeksema, S., Wisco, B. E. and Lyubomirsky, S. (2008) Rethinking Rumination. Perspectives on Psychological Science, 3(5), pp. 400-424.
- Pennebaker, J. W. (1997) Writing About Emotional Experiences as a Therapeutic Process. Psychological Science, 8(3), pp. 162-166.
