I don’t need a break from writing. I need a break from the parts of my life that make writing feel like a confrontation I didn’t ask for but refuse to back down from. Today’s prompt asked what I need a break from, and the answer is simple: I need a break from the fallout that happens when people finally see themselves in the stories I’ve been telling for years.
Because let’s be honest: my writing has been about them. It wasn’t kind, and it wasn’t meant to be. Kindness is something you extend to people who earned it. Accuracy is something you extend to people who didn’t. I told the truth as I lived it, and the truth wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t softened. It wasn’t rewritten to protect anyone’s ego. It was the record, finally spoken aloud.
And yes — they should be nervous.
Not because I’m vindictive, but because I’m no longer protecting the version of events that made them comfortable. For years, they benefitted from my silence. They benefitted from my self‑doubt, my fear of being disbelieved, my instinct to minimize what happened. They benefitted from the idea that I would never say anything publicly, that I would keep the peace, that I would keep the story small.
But I’m not small anymore. And the story never was.
The emotional cost isn’t in the writing itself. Writing is the one place where I feel clear, grounded, and fully in control. The cost comes afterward — in the reactions, the defensiveness, the sudden interest from people who never cared about my voice until it threatened their reputation. The cost is in the way they read my work not as narrative but as indictment, not as reflection but as exposure.
They’re not wrong to feel exposed. They’re just wrong to think that makes me the villain.
So when I say I need a break, I don’t mean from the craft. I don’t mean from the discipline of sitting down every day and shaping something coherent out of the chaos. I mean I need a break from the emotional crossfire that erupts when people realize I’m no longer writing in a way that protects them. I need a break from the tension of waiting for someone to get angry, or offended, or suddenly interested in “talking things out” now that the truth is public.
That’s why I’ve shifted my focus lately. Not away from writing, but toward a different kind of writing — one that doesn’t require me to brace for impact every time I hit publish. Tech writing gives me room to breathe. It’s clean. It’s structured. It’s about ideas, not interpersonal fallout. No one reads a piece about AI ethics and accuses me of airing dirty laundry. No one reads a UX critique and demands to know why I “made them look bad.” No one tries to turn my clarity into a personal attack.
Tech writing lets me think without flinching. It lets me build instead of defend. It lets me write without worrying who will be angry about it.
So no, I don’t need a break from writing. I need a break from the emotional debris that gets kicked up when people who once had power over me realize they don’t anymore. I need a break from their reactions, not my voice. I need a break from their discomfort, not my clarity.
And shifting my focus to tech isn’t retreat. It’s relief. It’s strategy. It’s choosing a space where my voice can exist without being punished for telling the truth.
That’s the break I need — and the one I’m finally taking.
Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 