My strategy was this: write one new essay a day and publish the best one at the end of the week. I figured by writing daily essays, I wouldn’t feel the pressure to make every one publishable. And I was sure I’d like at least one enough to share.

And it worked. The friction between finishing an essay and hitting publish disappeared. Instead of finding control through endless edits, I found it in choosing the best of what I’d written.

But something else was happening too.

Strangely, there was less friction in other areas of my life. I could make a mistake at work, be upset for five minutes, then bounce back and correct it. I could have difficult conversations with my partner without getting emotional or defensive.

Somehow, I was becoming more emotionally resilient. But what did that have to do with writing online?

When I reflect on what actually changed in my thinking, I keep coming back to the idea of writing for an audience.

Here’s what you learn when you start publishing your work: you have to be generous. You have to filter what you write through: “How can this story benefit someone else?” “How can I make this easier for someone to follow?”

And by using these filters for your writing, you start cleaning up your own mental clutter.

You start thinking, “If the stories I’m telling myself wouldn’t benefit an audience, are they even benefiting me anymore?” You start realizing that not every thought passing through your head is true. Not every belief is worth sharing... or keeping.

So, as you watch your subscriber count grow, don’t overlook the influence that writing might be having on you.

Until next week,
Melissa

Write Before Dawn is a newsletter about how daily writing can help you declutter your mind and find meaning in your life.

My name is Melissa, and I’m a formerly blocked creative who has been writing every morning for the past 141+ days.

Subscribe for writing practices that help you think more clearly, find lessons hidden in your everyday life, and shape your thoughts into publishable essays.

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Or another scenario. You set out a block of time to work on your book. Then you get an essay idea. So you start working on that instead. But the next day, you realize the essay wasn’t great, and that you spent your entire afternoon going in a million directions instead of taking deliberate steps towards your goal.

I’ve started calling this my creative ADHD.

Not an official diagnosis, just something I’ve noticed in myself. I generally like my ability to hyperfocus. I love getting lost in my work. I love getting into the gooey details of something. But I need rules to make sure I finish the projects that matter to me.

Rule 1: Keep your candy out of the room

Or in other words, intentionally design my digital and physical spaces to remove distractions instead of relying on willpower.

What does that look like specifically?

I keep all my social media blocked except for 10 minutes of allotted time a day. I also have screen time limits on my desktop. And if there’s something physical I know will distract me, I keep it out of sight.

Rule 2: Eat before you go to the grocery store/ front load your decisions

Never go to the grocery store hungry, right? Because you know you’ll make different choices based on your immediate needs? Well, the same applies to my decisions.

I decide everything I’m going to do at the beginning of the day (sometimes, the beginning of the week): When I’m going to write. When I’m going to the gym. What I’ll work on during my deep focus hours. What I’m eating for dinner.

So I don’t leave those choices for 6 PM when the decision fatigue hits and watching my latest Amazon Prime show is a lot more attractive than my workout.

Rule 3: Write down intrusive tasks

I used to act on ideas the moment I thought of them. I was always afraid I’d forget or lose motivation. But then I’d spend all day following creative impulses and get nothing done.

So now, I use Google Tasks on my phone to write down any creative idea that pops into my head and schedule it for an appropriate, predetermined time block. Usually that’s the next morning when I have the mental clarity to decide if it’s worth acting on.

Rule 4: Use a sound timer to interrupt your hyperfocus

When the hyperfocus hits, I lose myself. Which isn’t great when I have commitments or need to hydrate.

I use a sound timer to keep me conscious of time passing. If I only have an hour to write, I set the timer to interrupt me halfway through. This forces me to decide how I’ll use the remaining time and wrap up the session.

Here’s the thing… I don’t want to stop being the person who can disappear into a project. I like that part of my brain. But I don’t want to blindly follow my impulses either. Or lose myself at the expense of my own well-being.

These are the rules that have helped me write for the past 120+ days. That have helped me keep up with my workouts and go to bed at a decent hour.

These are the rules that help me stay creative AND sane.

Until next week,
Melissa

The point isn’t the number itself. The point is that I completely shattered an old limiting belief.

A belief that defined me 5 years ago… defined the woman who knew nothing about fitness and who thought lifting more than her own body weight was impossible (at least for someone who hadn’t done a real sport since she was 13).

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with David Goggins, a former Navy SEAL who lost 100 lbs in 3 months. (Before you ask, yes… I am one of those cringy people who listens to motivational speeches in the shower.)

David’s life-changing moment was the Rocky Round 14 scene. It’s not a scene where Rocky wins: it’s a scene where Rocky gets up when everyone expects him to stay down.

That 2-minute-and-13-second clip inspired David’s whole life philosophy. Inspired his gruelling workouts… inspired him to put himself through pain without knowing for sure if there would be a payoff. Why? Because he realized he didn’t need to win at everything he did; he just needed to be the kind of person who wouldn’t give up.

Which got me thinking… what’s my 2-minute-and-13-second moment?

There has to be one… because I went from being socially anxious in grocery stores to doing CrossFit every weeknight with my 6 PM crew. To saying yes to dinner invitations where I’d only know one person. But mostly because… things that once felt like the limits of my personality don’t feel quite so fixed anymore.

Was it the split-second decision to stop at the gym and inquire about classes on my way to a friend’s house?

Was it the 30-second clip of Olympic gold medalist Alysa Liu talking about how she fell in love with skating again during her two-year hiatus? How, while skiing with her family, she remembered the exhilaration of doing hard things? Remembered the part of her that fights? For her sport? For her creative vision?

Was it the David Goggins video?

I don’t know if there’s a singular 2 minutes and 13 seconds that changed my life. Maybe it was a collection of small moments that added up. Little whispers that said, “Hey, maybe this discomfort isn’t a limit; it’s an invitation.”

Somewhere along the way, I started lifting beyond my body weight. Started pushing through awkward interactions for the sake of connection. Started going beyond the boundaries of my so-called “fixed” personality. I started saying “Let’s see what else is possible.”

Do you have a 2-minute-and-13-second moment? Or, like me, did you only realize you’d changed after a hundred small ones?

Until next week,
Melissa

Hi! My name is Melissa, and I’m a formerly blocked creative who has been writing every morning for the past 120+ days.

Subscribe to Write Before Dawn for tried-and-tested writing processes and the life lessons I’ve uncovered through daily writing.

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I was excited because my boss had sent equipment to help get set up, one of the items being a productivity mouse he recommended. I’d spent the afternoon opening up boxes, setting up my desk chair, sectioning off a drawer with paper clips and Post-its and Sharpie gel pens.

The last step was to charge the mouse. Except when I surveyed the boxes and cords strewn across my desk, the short black one for the mouse wasn’t there.

I checked the kitchen where I’d initially unpacked. I checked inside the desk drawer I’d just organized. I checked the box it came in. Checked the garbage in case it accidentally went out with some of the old pens. It was nowhere.

That’s when the familiar deluge of self-defeating talk came in.

There you go. You did it again. No matter how organized you think you are, you always lose something, don’t you?

There you go hyper-focusing again. You’ve let yet another detail slip.

You always do this. No matter how many books you read on organization, you’ll always be a scatterbrain.

Doom and gloom. Everything is ruined. Your efforts are for nothing.

As I start inching out of my self-flagellation and towards a solution, I find an unboxing video for the mouse on YouTube. I figured if I could see the cord, it might trigger where I left it.

Only to find out… this mouse never came with a cord.

I’d spent the last 40 minutes beating myself up for losing a cord that never existed.

And I realized I’ve done various versions of this throughout my life. I’ve assumed friends were mad at me because they never responded to my text, only to find out they were caring for a sick family member. Or they got a new phone. Or they just started a new job. I’ve gone into fear-and-panic mode over scenarios I either exaggerated or made up in my head.

Isn’t it interesting how quickly the stories I tell about myself override reality? Isn’t it interesting how I completely changed my state from excited, joyful, grateful, to angry and stressed?

I’ve been spending the last few months trying to clean up my mind through writing. Trying to create new thought patterns, trying to tell new stories. Because my thoughts are the filter through which I see the world. I need to be so careful about how I define myself or talk to myself when things don’t go my way.

My inner voice narrates everything I do. Imbues every experience I’ll ever have.

So from now on, I’ll spend just as much time organizing my mind as I do my desk.

Until next week,
Melissa

Write Before Dawn is a newsletter about how daily writing can help you declutter your mind and find meaning in your life.

My name is Melissa, and I’m a formerly blocked creative who has been writing every morning for the past 115+ days.

Subscribe for tried-and-tested writing processes and the lessons I’ve uncovered through daily writing.

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When I described my tasks, coworkers, schedule, and work environment, they said, “Wow! Isn’t that exactly what you were looking for?”

And it is, almost to the letter. I spend my days copywriting, jumping between writing voices, designing creative workflows…

In my previous role, I wore multiple hats, but I wanted to lean more into my marketing skills. I wanted remote because I’m from a small town near Montreal and I wasn’t looking for a 1- to 2-hour commute. I wanted to end my workday, close my laptop, and be at the gym in 20 minutes.

But as I approached my one-year deadline, I wondered if I should come back down to earth. Who was I to have such a specific checklist? Who was I, trying to create these circumstances? Maybe I needed to be realistic.

I might have resigned myself to the train ride downtown if it hadn’t been for Paula.

We’ll call her Paula for the sake of this story. Paula is a friend. She was job hunting, and like me, had been feeling discouraged. Then I found out that Paula received not one job offer, but two. And when I asked her what changed, she sent me a voice note and said she’d done a 9-day prayer.

I knew Paula was religious. I wouldn’t say I’m religious, but I’m definitely spiritual. There were aspects of this 9-day prayer that surprised me, though. It involved reading a religious story and religious refrains, but you also had to read a letter you wrote to yourself every day, three times a day.

In the letter, you wrote your ideal job scenario, in detail.

What type of role you had. How much money you were making. What your boss and coworkers were like. How you felt when you went to work every day. And the key was to write it in the present tense. This wasn’t some faraway dream; you were writing this letter—to God—as if this was your life now. You were writing this letter to express gratitude.

Although Paula said to pray three times a day, I typically did one, sometimes two. I mainly did mine before bed. I had the letter on my end table and the prayer on my phone.

It was Day 8 when I got the LinkedIn message. From a lead I’d written to a month before. And within 2 weeks, I got one interview, then another, and 3 weeks later, I got the offer.

I don’t understand every mystery of the universe. Whether this was luck, a coincidence, or the culmination of all my job search efforts, I’ll never know for sure.

I’d networked. I’d done other interviews. I’d researched and done courses. I’d read a whole lot of books. And all of that most likely contributed to the outcome.

But during the week I was doing the 9-day prayer, my mood shifted. Focusing my attention on a dream that filled me with gratitude, on my faith (rather than on worst-case scenarios) kept me open to inspiration. Open to new action. Getting clear on what I wanted… the role, the people, the tasks, helped sharpen my focus.

I believe in effort, but I also believe in Grace.

I believe there’s a larger creative force, one I don’t think I’ll ever completely understand. I see it in moments when friends say exactly the thing I need to hear. In the acts of kindness I did nothing to earn. I believe there’s a force that shows up when you surrender control.

The truth is I don’t know if I “manifested”. But I do know this: our state affects our focus, and our focus affects our actions, and our actions affect our outcomes. I know can’t control everything. I know there are no guarantees that I’ll reach every single one of my goals. But by shifting my attention, by honing my focus, by strengthening my faith, I can choose to feel good now.

Until next week,
Melissa

Write before dawn with me

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 7+ months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

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I’ve kept journals all my life. Few of them have survived 10 years. I always get second-hand embarrassment from my past self and throw them away. This journal from 2016 survived an international move and Future Melissa’s discerning eye.

I’ve come to understand why this journal was hard to throw away.

There were small moments inside. Cute exchanges with my students. Quotes from books I was reading at the time. Doodles from my life. Attempts to capture dewy, sun-drenched flowers. My impressions as a Canadian in Colombia.

I kept this journal because it’s a time-capsule of the beauty that made up 2016.

How I’ve approached journaling throughout the years

I used to think the purpose of a journal was uninhibited self-expression.

I had a preference for “ugly” notebooks. Just regular school notebooks with lined pages that I could spill my thoughts onto. I preferred ugly notebooks because I didn’t feel guilty scarring them. I could write my most bitter, depressive, petty thoughts with no friction. My journals weren’t a place to capture moments or a place to hold my creative writing practice. They were a coping mechanism.

But the 2016 journal was different.

It was a hard cover. The pages weren’t lined. More than that, the first page was inscribed by my mom. And while my mom would later pass away—and while Future Melissa would have kept anything she wrote—this journal still survived years before. So, keeping the journal wasn’t JUST about preserving her memory. It was about WHAT she wrote. She inscribed that it warmed her heart that I still kept a journal. That she felt it was important to capture memories: kind deeds, a child’s words. She inscribed that she was proud of me.

So, it suddenly felt wrong to capture anything but the beauty of my life. I was writing for my mom, and unconsciously, for Future Melissa.

What was my real journaling mistake?

I don’t think my journaling mistake was that I wrote down negative thoughts. Even in my 2016 journal, I explored the stages of breakup grief through short poems. I collected quotes and wrote down lists of the things I’d do to move forward. I still use paper and a pen to sort through all sorts of mental knots. (Except now, when I’m done, I throw them away.)

The mistake was treating every thought as worthy of permanence. The mistake was writing every single self-defeating thing in a journal I planned on keeping. My journals became collections of fears rather than of life.

And as a result, I got stuck. Stuck inside my own rumination. My own self-loathing. I spent 6 years, between 2019 and 2025, following the same mental loops because I carved them into the story of my life.

Does the quality of my journaling improve the quality of my thinking?

I used to believe that adding structure to my journals would censor me in some way. Now, I believe that structure improves my thinking. My writing has stopped being about capturing thoughts and more about moulding them.

This past year, I read some of Byron Katie’s work. She’s become known for her 4 questions: Is it true? Can we absolutely know it’s true? How do I react when I believe that thought? Who would I be without it?

This line of questioning made me realize that our emotions, and more importantly, our actions depend on the strings we follow. Thoughts aren’t permanent. They’re not truths. We can sort through them and toss away what doesn’t serve us.

I was happier in 2016. Even though I was going through a break-up. Even though I was lonely (sometimes) as a Canadian expat in Colombia. I was happier because my journal inspired me to focus on the good.

What will my journals look like now?

Let’s start with what I’m NOT saying:

• I’m not saying I’ll make every page of my journal Pinterest-perfect

• I’m not saying I’ll only capture big moments like weddings and vacations

I’m saying that I’ll prompt my mind to see the good in my life.

Like how a new friend wrote a heartfelt note in my birthday card. Like the weekend coffee with a coworker that accidentally turned into a 2-hour deep talk. Like the child who picked a bouquet of wildflowers then gave it to me.

It’s easy to let my mind run on fear. To unravel every self-defeating belief and treat it as true. Since thoughts are inside me and all-consuming in the moment, I forget they’re ephemeral. They’re clouds floating by. Information I absorbed from my environment that my mind is trying to process.

So I will no longer follow every string. I will no longer get caught up in 6-year-long loops.

Instead, I’m collecting the life-affirming thoughts… all moments of joy that make me and the dreams that help me act more bravely. I’m focusing my mind on where I want to go instead of all the bad places I’ve been. I’m giving the precious thoughts permanence.

Until next week,
Melissa

What is your preferred journaling practice? Let me know in the comments.

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Join me as I write before dawn

It was such a shame, too. I knew there was so much potential for it to be an amazing tool. For managing my life. For writing.

It’s taken about 2 years for me to get this right, but I’m finally at a place where my phone serves me more than it distracts me. In fact, I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve been able to sustain my 80-day writing habit.

Here is how I make my phone work for me.

1. I block ALL social media apps (except for 10 minutes a day)

I use the iPhone Downtime feature, but probably not the way Apple intended.

Instead of scheduling when socials are blocked, I schedule when they’re available. My phone stays in Downtime from 3:40 p.m. until 3:30 p.m. the next day, which gives me exactly 10 minutes to scroll.

It sounds extreme, but it’s removed the mindlessness from scrolling. Knowing I only have a few minutes makes me more intentional about how I spend my time.

Not only that, but for most of the day, I can only access apps that enforce positive habits.

Apps like my calendar, Tasks, and Kindle are always available.

2. I protect myself from interruptions

I know this is probably annoying to my friends, but I keep my phone on Focus Mode for most of the day.

I’m easily distracted.

Keeping my phone on Focus Mode ensures that I finish a task before checking messages. So instead of reacting every time my phone buzzes, I respond when I’ve reached a natural stopping point.

Very few things are so urgent they can’t wait 10–20 minutes

And if they are, people call. Multiple calls automatically bypass Focus Mode.

3. My phone background is my vision board

I’m not sure how many phone pickups I have a day. (And I’m not going to check because, whatever the number is, I’m sure it’s embarrassing.)

But if I’m going to be on my phone, I might as well be reminded of what I’m working towards.

I create my vision board using Pinterest’s collage feature, then save it as my phone background.

4. My widgets are related to my goals

Just like my phone background, I want the first things I see to reinforce the person I’m trying to become.

Here are two of my favourite apps/widgets:

• Last Time: An app that tracks streaks for habits I’m trying to break. Right now, I’m tracking things like reading celebrity gossip and snapping at loved ones.

• Countdown: An app that counts down to important dates. Summer. Christmas. But also… my 12-week goal deadline. I don’t have the best concept of time, so this helps create urgency for the projects that matter most.

5. I use Photos as a capture tool

I love collecting impressions. Interesting articles. Quotes. Inspiring images.

But since I only have 10 minutes of social media each day, I need a way to save inspiration to enjoy offline.

My workaround has been to screen record or screenshot anything that catches my attention and save it to Photos.

That means I always have a Substack article to read with my afternoon tea. Or images to review when I’m looking for inspiration for my next article.

Saving content has the added benefit of not fragmenting my attention. I’m not being pulled towards a feed. I read my article and move on with the day.

6. My most used app is my sound timer

My phone is always nearby, which means my timer is too. I find it much easier to focus when I know exactly how long I'm asking my brain to concentrate. I use an app called White Noise to play ambient sounds for 5 minutes or an hour, depending on how long I want to focus.

I use it most for writing.

Writing in 10-minute chunks feels manageable for my brain, and I almost always end up writing longer than I planned. If I’m on a roll, I simply reset the timer.

7. I use Tasks to capture ideas and schedule them for processing

Tasks is another one of my most-used apps. If I pick up my phone, there’s a good chance I’m scheduling an idea for tomorrow morning’s writing session. For me, that’s 6 a.m.

I used to keep everything in Notes. But I’d either forget to look at it, or my ideas would disappear into endless lists.

By scheduling a time to process, I make sure I return to the ideas that feel most important. Whatever I don’t use, I add to the Ideas section of my One Essay a Day document.

I knew my phone had so much potential to support my art. I wasn’t quite ready to downgrade to a flip phone and throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Now instead of mindlessly scrolling Instagram or watching celebrity gossip, I read for 5 minutes on my Kindle app. I spark by looking at my vision board. I start my essay for tomorrow and schedule it for 6 a.m. on Tasks.

Now I actually USE my phone. It doesn’t use me.

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About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years living in Colombia.

These days, I’m documenting what happens when a chronic overthinker commits to writing and publishing daily essays.

Want to build your writing practice alongside mine?

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In 2021, I attempted to write a book. A memoir. And that’s the question I kept asking myself.

Certain memories were so vivid, so relentless, that I stopped calling them memories and started calling them impressions. I hadn’t chosen them; they’d impressed themselves upon me. And even years later, I could step into them again as if I had a time machine.

My job as a writer became to make sense of those impressions. To ask why these moments had stayed when thousands of others had faded. What had they changed in me? What values did they reveal?

For the past few months, I’ve written 75+ daily essays, and I’ve found that the same impressions keep finding their way onto the page.

I’ve come to believe that relentless memories are invitations to find meaning. To explore our lives through writing. To uncover our own personal mythology.

So with that said, here is one of the moments that made me. What moments made you?

“She’s gone.”

In my entire life, I’ve only ever seen my dad cry once. Even then, his eyes only brimmed with tears.

But when he hears the nurse speak these words about my mom, he doubles over and sobs.

My brother and I instinctively fall to his side. It’s as if our collective grief is pouring out of him. The burst of energy is so intense that we have to place our hands on his back to hold him together.

Then the energy passes and the room goes still. The nurse steps out to give us a moment alone. My brother, dad, and I are speaking calmly, almost matter of factly. Like we’re trying to follow some sort of grief manual. Like we’re trying to make this normal.

But nothing is normal. It never will be again.

We’re all in our home, just the way Mom wanted. We’re surrounded by familiarity and yet it’s all distorted.

Mom no longer looks like herself. Gravity erased the face I know. Her hands are heavy. Her touch is gone. And as I say my final goodbyes, I am painfully aware she is not in this room.

Then the nurse returns. Sooner than we expect.

“I have something to show you,” she says, and we follow her downstairs to our front door.

Illuminated by the porch light is a hand-sized dragonfly.

“I was standing here, when I felt something tickle my neck,” she explains. “I couldn’t believe it. In hospice, we put paper dragonflies on doors to signal someone’s passing. And there’s a real one on yours.”

A real one.

My mom… always the poet.

The woman who wrote every day. Who looked for red cardinals and butterflies after my grandma died. Who lived her life in symbols. Who believed in an afterlife.

Somehow, the touch I thought I’d lost is here.

And I feel that touch again and again. Not always a dragonfly. A shooting star when I look up at the sky with a question. A bird in the window that stares for a little too long. A language not everyone would understand, but that feels uniquely ours. Like our inside jokes… the way we’d diffuse a compliment with “It’s just natural”. Or cut tension with a British accent.

I can’t know with certainty what our lives mean. Or what happens when we go.

All I know is when I can’t hear her words or feel her hugs, I feel a current of love.

Maybe it’s remnants of the person she was. Maybe it’s her presence beyond the curtain of life.

Whatever it is, there is beauty in mystery. There is comfort in love.

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About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years living in Colombia.

I started this Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing. Somewhere along the way, the project evolved into Write Before Dawn.

These days, I’m documenting what happens when a chronic overthinker commits to writing and publishing daily essays.

If you’re building a writing practice of your own, I’d love to have you along.

Subscribe now

Five years ago, this would have been impossible. I’d have stuck beside my husband, spoken only when spoken to, and gone home replaying every interaction in my head.

I never understood how extroverts received energy from other people. Mingling always felt like a performance to me. I preferred being alone in my room with books: my one-way view into the human psyche. I could be in my Christmas PJs in June or mismatched fuzzy socks because… I wasn’t the focus.

Then the pandemic happened.

And there were no more parties. No more quick exchanges at grocery stores. Books were all I had… and I came to the horrifying realization that they weren’t enough.

I thought about the same problems every day. Spoke to the same 2 people. A whole year passed, and nothing in my life changed. No new ideas. No new opportunities. No new friends.

The real problem with books was that they were a one-way conversation: I couldn’t ask questions that would shift the perspective. Couldn’t spark a new topic by sharing my own story. Couldn’t test out ideas or ensure I understood by putting something into my own words.

I used to think that books were deep and talk was shallow.

But I know now that small talk is only as small as you make it. Talking to strangers can be a breeding ground for all sorts of creative ideas. Your next career move. Your next favourite book. Your next essay.

The key is knowing how to create depth in conversations and then turning them into something tangible. So here’s what has worked for me, a once painfully shy introvert.

Break the ice by making an observation

Since asking a total stranger what they did this past weekend might be a little intrusive, I find it helpful to start with common ground: the present moment.

• “Your dog is so cute/well-behaved. What’s his/her name?”

• “I heard you mention that you went to music school. What instrument do you play?”

• “Isn’t this such a beautiful home? Is it your first time here?”

Ask questions that go deeper

Once you’re on a topic, then it’s about going deeper.

I try to avoid yes/no questions like “Do you like it?” and shift to open-ended questions like “Why did you choose that career/city/hobby?”

The questions I’ve found that generate the best responses are “first”, “last”, “best”, and “favourite” because they invite a story or general enthusiasm.

• “Is this your first dog?”

• “What’s your favourite kind of music to produce?”

• “What was the last project you worked on?”

• “What’s the best part of your job?”

Follow the thread of enthusiasm

Once I can tell people are comfortable and talking, it’s easy for me to keep pulling the string. I’m always reminding myself to follow the enthusiasm.

If they answer something emphatically, like “I love The Beatles”, you don’t even have to follow up with a question; you can mirror their language: “You love them?” And they’ll most likely continue with something like, “Ya, I used to listen to them with my dad in the car.”

At the party I recently attended, one conversation in particular yielded such an in-depth exchange.

It started with an observation I made to my husband’s friend (“You ask such good questions!”). I noticed his girlfriend was charming as well, so I asked:

A: Who’s more extroverted, you or your girlfriend?

B: Definitely my girlfriend.

A: Really? Why do you say that?

This became a whole conversation on how, while he was great at making conversations at parties, his girlfriend was better at turning strangers into friends.

As a matter of fact, this exchange was the seed that inspired this very essay.

Capture interesting topics for your writing with reflection questions

Just as a disclaimer: this isn’t a how-to guide on how to exploit other people’s stories and lives. The conversations themselves aren’t usually the essay.

The essay is often the question the conversation leaves behind.

The writing process begins when you reflect.

• Did you fundamentally disagree with something someone said? Why?

• Did you find common ground that surprised you?

• Did you share a detail about your life that made someone light up? What was it? Is it something you can explore more deeply?

Now that I’m writing an essay a day, these types of questions are so helpful in identifying my own enthusiasm, biases, and half-baked ideas. They help me identify what has enough meat to dive into.

I’m still an avid reader. I still recharge my batteries by being alone. But I don’t feel painfully uncomfortable in social settings anymore. In fact, they fuel my creativity. They challenge my thinking. They help me grow.

I know I’ll keep adjusting my framework as I continue to expand my comfort zone. But for the first time in years, when I look back to two years ago, I truly do see transformation.

I’ll eventually go into how I pushed through the pain of shyness, so if you’re interested in developing better communication skills and how that relates to your creative practice, be sure to follow along.

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About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years living in Colombia.

I started this Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing. Somewhere along the way, the project evolved into Write Before Dawn.

These days, I’m documenting what happens when a chronic overthinker commits to writing and publishing daily essays.

If you’re building a writing practice of your own, I’d love to have you along.

Subscribe now

Initially, that was my biggest concern too.

One of the reasons Morning Pages worked so well was that it’s stream-of-consciousness, so there’s no friction. I could sit down and start with “I have no idea what to write” and still fill three pages.

Essays are different. They require structure. An idea with enough meat to expand on.

It’s taken a bit of trial and error, but I’ve written for 60 days, only missing a day or two in between. Here’s what works for me.

1. I always carry a capture tool

When I first started writing essays, I used to sit down and ask, “What do people want to hear from me?” Which, unsurprisingly, kept me staring at a blank page.

But after reading countless books on creativity, I’ve learned to ask myself a different question: “What’s catching my attention lately?”

And the answer rarely appears when I’m at my desk. It usually finds me while I’m living my life.

Like when I overheard my coach telling an anxious athlete that competitions didn’t need to be “that serious”. Or when I was listening to Wait For It from Hamilton on repeat before getting ready for the gym. The things that hold my attention are clues to what might be worth exploring more deeply.

So I’ve made it a habit to capture at least one moment every day, either in a notebook or in the Tasks app on my phone.

If I’m obsessed with a book or a show, I ask myself why and collect quotes and scenes. If I keep replaying a conversation, I write it down.

I have lists for different categories: Book Quotes, Small Moments, and Writing Ideas I want to explore.

So now, when I sit down to write, I rarely have to start from scratch. I have multiple strings to follow.

2. I use prompts when faced with a blank page

If none of the ideas I’ve collected work as an essay, then I also have a few go-to prompts.

The simplest question I use to generate ideas is:

“What are 10 things I know to be true?”

The key for me is not to overthink it. I’ll either set a timer for two minutes or write down numbers one through ten and fill them in as quickly as possible. And most of the answers aren’t particularly profound.

• I felt anxious after I scrolled Instagram today.

• I felt proud of my first pull-up.

• I get my best writing ideas while making breakfast.

But there are usually one or two ideas worth exploring further. “I felt proud of my first pull-up” could become a story about the moment itself or an essay about how sports mindsets translate surprisingly well to creative work.

3. I force myself to name the benefit of the piece

One of the reasons I got started with daily essays to begin with was to prevent me from ruminating.

It’s easy for me to get stuck on expressing the emotional truth of a moment without articulating why the moment is worth sharing to begin with.

For example, “I felt proud of my first pull-up” isn’t an essay. It’s a diary entry.

The essay begins when I ask why that moment mattered. Was it about confidence? Was it about finally seeing the results of consistency? Was it about the power of letting myself be a beginner again?

Forcing myself to do this before I write prevents me from being self-indulgent.

4. I choose a structure before I start writing

The point of this isn’t to confine me. It’s to guide me.

If I’ve decided I’m writing a story, when does the transformation happen? When is the main turning point? Matthew Dicks calls this a five-second moment. Sometimes I’ll write that moment first and work backwards.

If it’s an essay, I ask different questions. Am I delivering the information through a list? Am I slowly building toward one central argument? Am I comparing two ideas?

I don’t create detailed outlines, but I do like knowing what kind of piece I’m writing before I begin. A little structure helps me spend less time wandering and more time writing.

I also don’t feel pressure to get the structure right the first time. The beauty of daily essays is I can try one structure on a Monday, then write the same topic a completely different way on a Friday.

5. I use a timer to stop myself from overthinking

If my session is only thirty minutes, I try to make decisions from the previous steps quickly. I want to give myself at least twenty minutes to write.

The best way I’ve found is to put music on a timer. While that music plays, my only job is to fill white space, not write a perfect, publishable piece on the first try.

I’ve learned that it’s much easier to cut, rearrange, and improve a messy draft than it is to create something from nothing.

Most of my essays start rambly. Some of them are borderline incoherent. But the goal of the first draft isn’t quality, it’s momentum.

6. I leave breadcrumbs for my future self

Once my draft is finished, I save it to my One Essay a Day document and add the title to the table of contents.

Keeping everything in one document started as a way to stay organized (I didn’t want dozens of Google Docs floating around), but it’s become more than that.

When I think I haven’t accomplished much, I can scroll through that document and see every idea string I’ve followed. When I draw a blank, I can revisit old entries and find threads I want to pull on again. And when I finish writing for the day, adding a title to the table of contents creates a sense of closure.

Also, if a new idea pops up during the writing process (which happens a lot), I make sure to schedule it in my Tasks app for the next day.

I thought daily essays would eventually drain me of ideas, but the opposite has been true.

The more I write, the more ideas come. The more I notice stories in my everyday life. Because as it turns out, growth and transformation are happening all the time… all I needed to do was start paying attention.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years living in Colombia.

I started this Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing. Somewhere along the way, the project evolved into Write Before Dawn.

These days, I’m documenting what happens when a chronic overthinker commits to writing and publishing daily essays.

If you’re building a writing practice of your own, I’d love to have you along.

Subscribe now

You’re probably thinking, “Great! Pages of potential inspiration for your Substack.” That’s what I thought too. But as I started going through them, I realized that aside from a few flashes of insight, I mostly circled the same problem.

To be fair, the purpose of my journaling practice was never to produce genius work. It was mainly to show myself compassion on a page. To release some of the pressure of emotional buildup so I could get back to my real writing.

The problem was that I wasn’t releasing problems; I was perpetuating them.

And on top of that, I wasn’t producing “real writing.” Despite filling journal after journal, I’d only published on Substack 3 times in 2 months.

So I decided to replace my daily journaling practice with an essay practice. Every morning, I’d explore one new idea in 300 words. I hoped that I’d stop overthinking my Substack and give myself 7 possible ideas to choose from by the end of week.

It’s been 57 days of daily essays, and I don’t plan on stopping. Here’s what’s changed.

As I make breakfast, I think of writing ideas, not problems

I used to walk into the kitchen worrying about the day ahead. Now I find myself scrambling for my phone because I just got my next writing idea.

This was a wonderful unintended consequence of the daily essays.

I’m delving into topics I wouldn’t normally give myself time to think about. I end up asking myself new questions, branching into subtopics, and by breakfast my brain is lit up with all sorts of new pathways.

I tell better stories at the gym

CrossFit is quite social, so I find myself chatting with my 6 PM crew a lot.

I used to mostly ask questions (which I still do). Or stand in the corner obsessing over whether or not the sweat stain on my shirt was in a weird place.

Now I’m more confidently chiming in with a story.

The other day, I made my group full of guys genuinely laugh with one of my anecdotes.

I attribute this to having a clearer idea of my values, since I’m discovering what I actually think every morning. I’m also better at providing relevant examples of why I believe what I do.

My writing is landing more (and one of my notes went viral)

For years, I filled pages with thoughts but struggled to distill them into a single point.

The note that went viral was four lines about my writing practice. It was a deceptively simple idea. If I hadn’t spent the last 20 days turning experiences into titles and 300-word essays, I don’t think I would have recognized it as an insight worth sharing.

The point of writing is communication. Thoughts need to move. Crash into other opinions. To alchemize.

When I only wrote in a journal, all my thoughts would sit like still water.

But when I started writing essays, I imagined an audience. I imagined how my experiences might benefit them. How they might challenge my beliefs. And suddenly there was movement. Like a river moving towards an infinitely bigger body of water.

Instead of circling the same thoughts, I started turning them into lessons.

Writing daily essays doesn’t just help me produce more publishable writing; it opens me up in other areas of my life. It affects how I show up for my day. For work. For the gym. On Substack.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian, former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

I’d tear open a present, run across the room to show my mom and get distracted by my cousin’s toy. Ask a million questions, interrupt adult conversations to sing them a song…

Throughout my life, there has inevitably been a moment when my excitement feels like anxiety. Like how boiling water feels cold to me… at certain extremes, opposite sensations feel the same.

I find myself in this state even as an adult.

When I get a bunch of likes on a post, then compulsively check notifications all day. Or come home from a party, then pace as I replay every conversation.

I used to mitigate the discomfort with a YouTube binge. But lately, I’ve been trying to find a strategy that helps me wind down.

Here are my current overstimulation tools.

Reset the space

Reducing physical clutter helps with mental clutter too.

I’ll play a 20-minute white-noise timer and start mindfully tidying. Absolutely no deep cleaning, though. That would open up more mental loops.

I’ll turn off overhead lights and turn on lamps. If my space is especially messy, I’ll carve out a small “peace corner”. Create a makeshift reading nook. Declutter my desk or bedside table, depending on where I plan on settling next.

Do an evening workout

I know most people prefer to get their workouts out of the way in the morning, but I love doing mine at night because it’s my way of clearing out the mental cookies.

Once I reach a certain zone of intensity, I don’t think of anything other than sensations in my body. If I still catch my mind wandering, I’ll start counting backwards. Weird, but it works. I think it requires more focus than counting forward. Plus, I become more aware of each breath.

Read a poetry book

This strategy is fairly new. I used to read novels to unwind, but I think poetry works better for a couple of reasons.

First, poetry forces me to slow down. To drink in not only the meaning of the words, but also notice how they sound together.

Not to mention, poetry is the art of small moments… the glistening diamond sheet on your porch after a summer rain or the tingling remnants of a kiss when it’s over.

Overstimulation is being pulled into several directions at once, and poetry is presence.

Zentangle

This strategy is my favourite because it’s accessible wherever I am. Especially now that I’ve started carrying a pocket notebook and a pen—thanks, !—I can always take out a page and start doodling.

Zentangle is the art of making patterns through lines. And you don’t need to be talented to create a cool design. Fill in spaces with dots. Make lines straight, curved, or swirled. Anything goes. Just follow your instinct and determine what the page needs.

Here’s why I think it works for overstimulation. In Martha Beck’s Beyond Anxiety, she says the creative side of your brain helps short-circuit anxious thoughts. So when I focus my energy on creating beautiful patterns, I slow down my thinking.

Junk journaling and collage books (while listening to a full album)

This is a preventative rather than emergency measure.

I’ve noticed that when I regularly schedule time to be unproductively creative, I’m less overstimulated.

With collages, there’s no specific outcome to achieve. Similar to Zentangle, I’m just determining what the page needs in the moment.

I keep a box where I’m always collecting “junk”: pretty logos on napkins, business cards, wrapping paper, show tickets, notes, etc.

I also listen to a full album while I do it. I like how it creates a clear starting and stopping point and sets the creative vibe for the collage.

What all of these strategies have in common is that they force me back to the present. Instead of my mind moving in a million directions, they direct my focus to what’s in front of me. They all have little rewards built in: a cozy nook, a beautiful design, the rewarding ache of a great workout.

In an age where new information is constantly competing for my attention, I’ve become increasingly protective of activities that ask nothing of me except my presence.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian, former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

I’m sitting at a makeshift desk at my in-laws’ in Colombia, aimlessly opening and closing tabs… trying to determine what tasks get done before the workday ends and what I’ll have to push to tomorrow.

My husband opens the door and pauses.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

And that’s partially true. There’s nothing specifically wrong, just my brain haranguing me with every possible version of “you’re not good enough”.

“My parents told me you skipped lunch again.”

“I had a meeting. And I’m a little nauseous,” I say.

Then he gives me that look. The one I know means, “Are we doing this again?” Because I have (maybe) one stress-free day a week before I’m engulfed by a cloud of anxiety. And it’s not just during the workday, but it bleeds into the evening as well.

I joined CrossFit as an attempt at course correction.

I wanted to gain weight, and I thought muscle training would force me to eat better. Most importantly, though, I thought a 6 PM gym time would provide an emotional reset from work.

I knew I’d made the right choice after my second-ever class. We were doing a workout called CHAD, which consists of 1000 weighted box step-ups.

Even though I was doing an adapted, unweighted version, my heart rate went up… And as the 90s throwback hits pumped through my veins, I felt a vaguely familiar euphoria.

I couldn’t quite articulate what was happening during that workout. Not until Alysa Liu won a gold medal at these past Winter Olympics.

My feed was flooded with Alysa interviews. And in one in particular, she explained her decision to return to skating after her burnout. She was on a ski trip with her family, and as she was coming down the mountain, she felt the same exertion-fueled euphoria I experienced. The one you get when something is hard. When you’re on the brink of success or failure. When you’re right at the limit. Or as Alysa put it, when you connect to the “side of you that fights.”

“The side of you that fights.” Alysa’s words rang in my ear for weeks.

I knew exactly what she meant, but had never been able to put it into words. The part of me that fights is the part of me that pushes the limit. The part of me that breaks the chain. It’s the moment I grow a little beyond what I thought was possible. It’s what I felt when I did CHAD.

The euphoria of exertion is different than the stress that caused my burnout. Stress was effort without purpose. Stress was effort without vision.

I was burning out at work because my success metric was approval from my superiors. Alysa burned out because she got so good at doing what she was told, she forgot her own reasons for skating.

I’ve come to believe that the part of me that fights doesn’t just show up in the gym. It’s a creative force that shows up in my writing as well.

It’s the part of me that reads voraciously. Who obsessively looks up new words. The part of me that carves out time in the wee hours of the morning… no matter how busy the day ahead of me is.

It’s the part of me that pushes past my limited skills, not for approval, but to bring forth my unique vision of beauty.

When Alysa returned to skating, she regained creative control by choosing her program music… by managing her own workout schedule and nutritional needs. Similarly, when I write, I’m no longer the people-pleaser I was. I no longer push myself to the brink of exhaustion for someone else’s vision. I have my own vision of success. Of beauty. I’m more productive than I ever was because I’m in the driver’s seat.

When I sit at my desk and write in the morning, I fight. The self-defeating thoughts. The perceived limitations. I fight for the future I know is possible. I fight for the beauty I know can exist.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. I write an essay a day to structure my thinking, and publish one every week. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

It’s hard to imagine that only a couple of months ago, I was struggling to publish once a month, and now I’m publishing twice a week.

It took me years to get to this place. I’ve always loved writing and dreamed of building a community of creatives, but something always got in the way.

These are 3 mistakes I corrected that helped me turn my spiral notebooks into published pieces.

Mistake #1: I only wrote “for myself”

I used to keep my writing in journals. Or in Google Docs, buried in folders called “Personal Writing”.

Most consisted of Morning Pages, also known as 3-page stream-of-consciousness journaling. Or stories from my time in Colombia (that I thought no one else would care about but still needed to come out of me).

For years, I thought this meant I had a healthy writing practice. It was only when I saw the literal pile of journals I’d accumulated contrasted with my dismal Substack publishing record that I started to question myself.

I knew that, if I wanted to grow as a writer, I needed to start writing for an audience.

I already had a journaling habit, so the next step was structure. Instead of asking myself “What am I feeling right now?”, I started asking “What have I learned lately, and how could I best communicate that to someone with the same goals?”

Writing with an audience in mind forced me to do more than dump feelings on paper. It forced me to ask myself, What’s useful here? What can be discarded? How could someone else benefit from this? Where’s the lesson? Ultimately, writing with a reader in mind helped me find meaning in my life.

Mistake #2: I was spending way too much time on one piece

Once I started writing for an audience, I ran into a different problem.

I knew the most valuable tool for a writer was feedback, which is why I committed to publishing regularly on Substack. But despite my resolve, I was only publishing about once a month. A big reason for this was that any time I published, I’d feel roller-coaster-like stomach dips for the rest of the day.

Eventually, I realized I was getting too attached to individual pieces. I’d spend Monday writing an essay and the rest of the week tweaking sentences and rearranging paragraphs. By the time I hit publish, it felt like a reflection of my entire identity as a writer.

The only way I found to break that attachment was to force myself to write something new every day. So instead of spending a week polishing one idea, I spent it exploring seven.

This way, by the time I reached my self-imposed publishing date, I had multiple essays to choose from. Not only that, but each piece needed less editing. Sometimes an idea I expressed one way on Tuesday came out in a different, better way on Friday.

Mistake #3: I relied on inspiration instead of creating a system

If I was going to publish twice a week, bolts of inspiration at my desk weren’t enough.

I realized ideas passed me by all the time; I just needed to capture them.

In Storyworthy, author Matthew Dicks suggests keeping a one-moment-a-day journal. So I started writing down happy, transformative moments, as well as simple ones. Like the one time I overheard teenagers at Starbucks talking… and one of them said it was “embarrassing” to tell someone “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”. This one comment sent me down a rabbit hole on overcoming my fear of being “cringe”.

I also started capturing random ideas that popped up while I was cooking or in the shower. My Tasks app was great for this because I could quickly jot something down, then schedule it for my 5:00 a.m. writing time the next morning.

My daily writing practice taught me that processing emotions isn’t just useful to me, but to other people too. There were nuggets of wisdom in my journals; I just needed to ask myself the right questions to pull them out.

Yes, writing is a self-exploration tool, but if we have courage, it can also help us expand beyond ourselves.

For years, my stories lived in spiral notebooks. Now they get to live in the world.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. I write an essay a day to structure my thinking, and publish one every week. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

For context, I usually get about 5-10 likes on average. If I get 10, I’ll analyze why and try to repeat the success. So by the time my note hit 50, I was freaking out.

A month ago, I wrote about how I loved getting zero likes on a post. Or rather, how I loved defiantly publishing the following week despite low engagement, thus proving that writing wasn’t a whim… it was a passion.

I’d tackled the discomfort of failure. Now, I was tackling the discomfort of “success”.

And surprisingly, the anxiety was similar.

As the likes kept climbing, I found myself asking, “Is this it? Is this my moment? Will I finally be able to call myself a writer?” Cue the Hamilton lyrics about “not throwing away my shot” and needing to answer comments like “I’m running out of time”.

I checked likes all day long. Started strategizing for 1,000 followers. Wondered how I could maximize the momentum. Underneath it all was one thought:

If I don’t take advantage of this, it might never happen again.

But before I could spiral completely, another Hamilton song popped into my head.

“Wait For It”.

More specifically, these lyrics:

I’ve always loved this song because of the strange sense of peace underneath it, despite acknowledging how random life is.

My favourite line is, “I am the one thing in life I can control.”

And I realized that was the exact opposite mindset of the spiral I was in.

I was trying to control something fundamentally uncontrollable. Whether people kept liking my writing or whether this moment would “become something.”

Yes, I can notice patterns, but I can’t fully control whether a post gets 10 likes or 1,000.

The only thing I can fully control is whether I keep writing. Whether I keep showing up after failure… or success.

My relationship to writing goes beyond metrics. I’ve always been drawn to books, to storytelling, ever since I was a little girl. There’s nothing more satisfying than when someone puts something into words I had only ever felt before. Or resolves a philosophical knot I’d held internally for years.

The peace in “Wait For It” comes from acknowledging that results are random, but purpose isn’t.

The meaning from writing was never in the results; it was in the gifts I received in the process: emotional clarity, connection to myself and others, the delight in creating beauty with language.

The middle, the wait, is the peaceful place. Not endlessly striving. Not chasing a mirage.

So if there’s a reason I got 1000 likes, if there’s a reason I love to write… I’m willing to wait for it.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. I write an essay a day to structure my thinking, and publish one every week. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

But after burning out 3 years ago, I attempted to heal myself through Julia Cameron’s 12-week Artist’s Way program. The prompt that started it all was “What are some activities that sound fun but you would NEVER do?” I wrote down a few, and the next instruction was, “Great, now go do two.

And so began my journey with CrossFit and tap. And let me tell you… I was bad. Really bad at both.

I was so thin I had to do CrossFit workouts with dumbbells instead of barbells like everyone else. And as for tap, I couldn’t even manage a sequence of choreo while my peers had performed on stages before.

Tingly hot shame liquid would run through my body every single class. I’d get looks that communicated, “What is she even doing here?” (Or maybe that part was in my head.)

I don’t know where I got my resolve. It might have been desperation brought on by burnout. Despite my physical discomfort, I was committed to pushing through.

But to lessen the stench of my badness, I started doing work outside of class.

I watched YouTube videos to understand CrossFit techniques.

Started recording tap classes to practice choreography in my basement.

Most importantly, I kept showing up… no matter what.

Turns out, tingly hot shame liquid is rocket fuel for progress.

I improved so rapidly that even my teachers noticed. I started doing workouts with barbells. Knew tap choreo better than the veterans in my class (even though the movements were still awkward).

3 months later and suddenly… I wasn’t a beginner anymore. New first-timers joined. I watched their faces wrinkle into self-conscious frowns. Watched them tolerate their “badness” for one, maybe two classes, then give up.

Meanwhile, I was catching up to the mid-performers. The ones who were “good enough”. Who didn’t have shame rocket fuel to propel them to the next level. They didn’t need to practice tap in the basement or study CrossFit techniques at home.

Shame Rocket Fuel was why I started publishing on Substack.

I wanted to feel the sting of zero likes on a post. To be exposed to better writers. To feel the tension between where I was and where I wanted to be. So that I’d read more books. Write more often. Quit mindlessly scrolling. Push the limits of what I previously thought was possible.

And today, I’m no longer a beginner. I’m finally publishing weekly. Zero likes don’t happen as much anymore. I was fueled by every bad essay I ever wrote. I’m motivated by the gap I’m closing. I’m no longer afraid of being bad. In fact, I welcome it. It’s not a hindrance; it’s an unfair advantage.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

I did them without fail until a few months ago. I was cleaning out my closet when I found a bag of journals. Not full of memories, but dozens of versions of the same problem.

I’d accumulated 12 notebooks in three years but hadn’t published on Substack in a month.

I started Morning Pages during a particularly stressful work period. I was overflowing with unprocessed emotions, and they spilled onto the page with alarming urgency. Writing provided instant relief, so this became my go-to coping strategy. Not just in the mornings, but any time I felt mildly distressed.

The problem was I’d get stuck in never-ending “Why?” loops. Why are you upset? Why is this event so triggering? Why does this emotion keep coming up? Why, why, why? And there would always be a valid reason, so it just kept going.

The real shock was how embarrassed I felt by these journals. God forbid, if I ever passed away, these unbridled thoughts would be my legacy.

I couldn’t even tell when entries were written. The pages weren’t dated, and there wasn’t enough context to identify what specific problem I was trying to solve. Even if I had captured a memory or carved out an insight, it would be hard to find in all the muck.

I knew daily writing was helpful. I knew organizing my thoughts on a blank page had always given me peace. What I needed was a bit more structure so I could stop ruminating and actually uncover meaning.

At this point, I was in the middle of another self-imposed challenge. I’d committed to making myself more visible. I was publishing “bad essays” online, so I could build community, get feedback and hone my voice. But I was three months into 2026, and I’d only published four.

So I thought, What if instead of writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness, I attempted to write 300-word essays?

I could commit to:

• a title

• 1 main insight or takeaway

And since perfectionism is an obstacle, I told myself I didn’t have to publish all of them, but needed to share at least one a week. I needed to choose an idea with potential, lightly edit then send it off into the world.

It’s been 37 days of essay writing (and counting). I’m not planning on stopping.

Not only have I started publishing more regularly, but my mood has improved significantly.

Writing essays with a reader in mind forces me to structure my thoughts and look for lessons in my life. And this is true even when I don’t share them.

I still believe in the power of a blank page. But instead of trying to articulate my distress and deconstruct problems, I use the space to find meaning.

About the author

Hi there! My name is Melissa. I’m a Canadian former ESL teacher who spent 8 years in Colombia. I created my Substack 6 months ago as an experiment in publishing imperfect writing, and the project eventually morphed into Write Before Dawn. My goal is to create a nurturing space where writers can stop overthinking and find meaning in their daily writing practice.

My coach listened until he finished. Laughed a Buddha laugh and said, “Tim…it’s not that serious.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about this moment. Because my coach is an incredible athlete. The kind of person who loves the long, gruelling workouts. Who trains six times a week. And yet, she has the calmest energy. She performs at a high level without taking anything seriously.

I used to think anxiety was proof that I cared. That hypervigilance would give me safety.

But things started to change when I experienced the death of my mom. When I sat in a room with all her unfinished journals, with all the clothes she’d never wear again, with all the remnants of a life interrupted, and realized… stress didn’t protect me from this.

Most things in life aren’t that serious, but my coach helped me see I could still challenge myself. Serious didn’t have to mean stress; it could mean dedication.

I could take my goals, my aspirations, my dreams seriously, but in a way that was more playful. Instead of asking myself, “What if I’m not enough?” ask, “I wonder how far I can go?” Ask, “If I show up to my writing daily, stop caring so much what people think, commit to getting a little better each day, where could this take me?”

Because there are no guarantees. We didn’t choose to be born, and we don’t choose when we go. What we do with the in-between is our creative expression.

It’s not that serious. We can either spend our lives creating what we want or avoiding what we don’t. The choice is ours.

But if we’re only here for a little while, we might as well make it fun… and take our art seriously.

It took 4 tries to get my driver’s license. I’ve hid in the bathrooms at parties before. Run on manic energy all week, then flopped on the weekend to binge YouTube videos.

When I started my Substack about a year ago, I noticed that many creatives struggled with the same thing.

My theory was this: creativity is bestowed, like a magic gift, and anxiety is the consequence that restores balance. But after reading Beyond Anxiety by Martha Beck, I’ve come to a different conclusion. One that shatters my “Creative Martyr” illusion.

It’s not that creativity makes people anxious. Actually, it’s the opposite. Anxiety is a modern disease, and creativity is the cure.

First, Beck explains our brain: We have the pragmatic, left side that solves problems and protects us from danger. And we have the creative, right side that makes connections, notices beauty and experiences awe.

In an industrialized world, we’re trained to use the left side.

The side that follows instructions. The side that conforms. We’re told that life is a giant game of musical chairs, and if you’re not always “on”, someone will take your spot. The prestigious cog-in-the-machine job that pays a lot so you can, as Martha Beck puts it, “grab more stuff”.

Human beings did not evolve to live this way.

We used to have more balanced lives. We used both sides of our brains. Yes, there was hunting for survival, but during off hours, people cooked meals together, made art, told stories around fires, looked up at the stars and wondered at the universe.

Martha says that activating the right side of our brain can actually interrupt the anxiety spiral.

Take this simple example. A mildly anxious person is prompted to think about their favourite sights, sounds, and smells. Like a deep blue lake, a crackling fire, and the smell of jasmine. Then, they’re asked to think of a scenario where all these things would be present. Like drinking tea at a Canadian cottage. It turns out, forcing your brain to create a scene actually reduces the stress response. (Try it, it works.)

So that garden you tend to on your balcony after work? The poetry you write for no one but yourself? The reading nook with yellow pillows and books stacked by colour? It’s not frivolous at all; it’s essential. It’s survival for the modern world.

I have to say, since reading Martha’s book, I’ve indulged in my daily writing habit with a little less guilt.

That’s why I take a taxi by myself across Bogotá to meet with a woman whom I don’t know what to call. Not a medium or a psychic (she made that clear on the phone).

What do I need to talk about?

She assured me that we’d stumble on the topic. All I know is that it’s been weeks of not eating. Falling asleep, then waking with a start. Of obsessing over tragedies in the news… a current of anxiety that won’t let up.

I have a work conflict, but my stress is disproportionate (says my whole support system). My husband has been in a long immigration process, but we’re seeing light at the end of that tunnel. My dog died a few months ago, but I was a mess before that, too.

In the woman’s studio, there’s a round table with papers strewn across and a pendulum necklace she’ll swing during the session.

Niña Bonita, she says before each question, her tone warm one second, then slightly mocking and distant the next (which she warned me would happen).

She asks about recycling, and I chuckle. Just this morning, I snapped at my husband over Coca-Cola bottles. In Canada, we have a blue box that goes out every week, but not in Colombia.

She knows I’m staying with my in-laws, which I never told her. At least, I don’t think so. My logical brain interjects often in this process, even though I want to fully surrender.

Then she asks about my husband’s immigration process, the long-distance periods… what my mom thinks of all of it, and Logical Brain goes, See?! I told you this wouldn’t work! She doesn’t even know!

She doesn’t even know that my mom passed away 4 years ago. And I feel almost embarrassed to tell her.

I start to say she died, but get cut off. No, she says. No one is ever really gone, but I already know that, don’t I?

She says I already know what my mom thinks.

That I already know she’s with me.

That I already know she’s the bird in the window.

Tears have never come this way before. I didn’t close my eyes, just noticed them streaming down my cheek. She hands me a tissue.

A bird in the window is what I saw the day after I lost my dog. I was coming downstairs, and there it was. Sitting at my mom’s favourite spot. On our veranda, at her black bistro set, looking right at me, tweeting as if trying to tell me something.

I’d always known the moment meant something, but I forgot. In all the anxiety, all the managing, all the fixing, all the planning, I’d forgotten the last message my mom gave to me.

“All is well” is what she wrote on our kitchen chalkboard before she died. It’s still there. Isn’t that the message I’m receiving now? That nothing is ever really gone and that no matter what happens, I am loved?

I may have forgotten again.

But later that day, in the bathroom at my in-laws’, I heard a knock at the shoe-box-sized window as I washed my hands. Looked up and saw a bird’s silhouette.

No one would ever believe me. No one would even fully understand. They don’t have to, though. The message is for me and for me alone.

All is well.