I started writing to grasp the chaos which is human nature. I kept writing to identify myself within said chaos. I continue writing because words carry different meanings for different people and I want to know what words mean to me. I write to mend. I write not to define but to discover, not to know but to explore, not to shout but to whisper from the back corner of a room full of people. I write because I believe in the power of butterfly wings. And everything that compels me to write also stands in my way. My hunger takes me out to dinner with perfectly paired wines at each course. My desire for conversation keeps me in lengthy discussions that last into the night before I wake early and take my son to school; and then I’m yawning and drinking coffee and wondering if he forgot his lunch, and not of words. At times, the chaos keeps me in pajamas under a blanket or brings me to a rally or the volunteer office—and I know it’s time to find a new meditation pillow. But I always return to words, listen to their individual heart beat, and I return to writing them down again and again, because writing helps me to see.