I stare out at the gorge and focus on the blue sky between the clouds.

I won’t let his actions drown me in guilt for the rest of my life.

I won’t let him steal my future because I’m stuck in the past.

I take a deep breath and soak in the beautiful view. I’ve never meditated before, and I have no idea if that’s what I’m doing, but as I let go of the negativity, I feel lighter than I have in months. A few moments later, words start coming to life in my brain, and my fingers itch for a pencil and paper.

It’s not a song. I don’t know if I have any of those left in me, but it’s a voice that won’t go silent until I get the words out of me and onto paper.

I rush to the desk and find a stationery set with a beautiful pen in a decorative inkwell. As soon as my fingers wrap around it, I second-guess myself.

My songwriting ability was equally a blessing and a curse.

But maybe . . . just maybe . . . getting the words out is a way of letting go of the past. Maybe this is exactly what I need to do to give myself any kind of shot at having happiness in my future.

I can write anything and it doesn’t matter. No one will ever see it or read it. It can be just for me. An outlet.

Giving myself permission is like flipping a switch. As soon as the pen touches the paper, I lose myself in the words and time ceases to matter.

Line after line, I unburden my brain from the guilt and negativity that have been dragging me down.

A pattern takes shape, and I flip to a new page. The lines start to rhyme. A chorus chants in my brain. Absently, I hum a melody, and my body rolls with the beat.

It should scare me. I should throw down my pen and back away from the desk, but instead of fear, I’m filled with an undeniable sense of power.

What I’m writing has meaning.

It’s my truth.

I put words on paper until my hand cramps and my brain finally goes quiet, and the only sound in the room is my calm, steady breathing.

I stare down at the scattered sheets and realize that for the first time in a long time, writing words that will become lyrics fills me with purpose. Maybe because it’s out of instinct and not duty?

With my hand wrapped around my now cold mug of coffee, I rise and walk to the windows. I don’t know what time it is, but it doesn’t matter because all I see above me is sunshine and blue sky. The clouds don’t even register.

A smile tugs at my lips. So this is what it’s like to feel optimistic about the future.

I finish my cold coffee just as someone knocks on the door.