Writing is helpful when you tend to be empathic.
When you take on everyone's feelings around you as your own. When the room's tension becomes a knot in your chest. When a friend's grief settles into your bones and stays there until you find a way to release it.
I have had people question me before, on how I make the dialogue sound so real. On how the flow feels natural - that is not me tooting my own horn (ok maybe a LITTLE! but still!)
That is why the writing feels "real." Because it is real.
Well a kernel of it is
It is not imagined. It is felt — first by me, then by the page, then by you, if you are reading this.
I do not choose this. It just happens.
And if I did not write, I would drown.
Perhaps it because I learned it from when I was an actress.
Ah, now we are getting into the nitty gritty.
I was, in the tradition of Le Fantôme de l'Opéra the novel, for all intensive purposes, a "ballet brat" - only I was more of an opera brat, if truth be told. Knee tall, the theater became my home.
I learned timing, breath control, when to say things and not to say things.
How to hold an environment - whether real or fictional - without shattering.
Writing is where that helps.
Writing is not just a craft for me. It is a release. A way to take all that borrowed feeling and give it a shape, a home, a place to land that is not inside my own body.
That is why I have so many rooms. Poetry for the beauty. Novels for the chaos. Self-help for the devastation. Essays for the meaning. Tuhat for the process.
All of them are ways of letting the weight out.
So sit down, grab your chocolate, and I will tell you what I do.
Here is exactly what I have learned about being an empath who writes:
1. Your empathy is your superpower.
Yes yes I know - it is cheesy. But here me out! You can write characters who feel alive because you have already felt what they feel. You do not have to guess. You just have to remember.
It's like method acting, but just as strong. You don't have to imagine your characters feeling sad. You have real memory recall! You know how people would feel in these moments and that is gold.
2. Writing is not optional for you.
It is not a hobby. It is not a side project. It is how you process the weight of being an deep thinker in a world that does not stop handing you feelings.
And it's especially important to have a place that is safe, in a world where we are constantly reachable.
And if you are reachable, you are able to be picked apart and judged.
It's not just a release.
It's a safe space for your nervous system. Chew on your chocolate and think on THAT.
I know I did, when I wrote it.
3. Your readers can feel it.
That is why they write back, if you are on social media and you serialize your pieces like I do, or if you have beta readers.
That is why they recognize themselves.
That is why they stay.
Why they respond so deeply.
They are not just reading your words. They are feeling your feeling — and recognizing their own.
4. You need to protect this.
Empathy is a gift, but it is also exhausting. You cannot pour everything out without refilling. Writing is the release. But rest, boundaries, and a pet (like my Honey the cat) are the refill.
5. You need something that is not monetized.
I know I know but here me out!
You need something that is just yours.
A hobby, where you do not share it with the world. People like us share so much, and whether it is painting or journaling or even something where you aren't creative, something where your brain goes numb for a while, it prevents burn out.
Here is the part I need to tell you:
I have a surgery coming up.
Nothing life-threatening. Nothing to worry about. But a surgery with a six-week recovery.
That means my posts might be sparse in July and August. Not because I am quitting. Not because I have run out of things to say. Because my body needs to heal. And even an empath who writes every room needs to stop sometimes.
What that means for you, if you are reading this:
I will be quiet for a bit. But the work is still there. The Tuhat posts. The Substack serials. The essays on Svarnac. All of them are still alive. Waiting for you.
And when I come back — when my body has healed and my mind has rested — I will have new things to say. New feelings to release. New rooms to write in.
Because writing is not just what I do.
It is how I survive the absurdity.
And the absurdity will still be there when I return.
What I am learning:
It is okay to be quiet. I know!
It is okay to heal. It is okay to put the pen down and trust that it will still be there when you pick it up again.
That is not failure. That is wisdom.
So I will write this post. Then I will rest. Then I will recover. Then I will come back.
And the empathy? The absorption? The weight of the world that I carry and then release onto the page?
That will still be there too.
But I will be stronger. And ready.
So if you are an empath who writes —
Take care of yourself. Protect your heart. Put the pen down when you need to.
The page will wait.
And so will your readers.
Now go rest. You have earned it.