Can the words of another really help? Can you really be moved by the idle ramblings of someone who has put their thoughts to page? Is it possible that those words have the power to soothe or even heal the pains and difficulties that you experience in your own private unique life? I have asked myself this question both as one who has had cause to read and as one who has had cause to write.

In the early days after my Craig had passed from this world I despised living. I hated being here in this horrible painful world when my beautiful boy had been taken from it. I wanted nothing to do with a world that had caused him pain and suffering and which had then squeezed him out. I resented life, physical life. And there was nothing here for me anyway. I had no driving ambition, no hope and no purpose. I didn’t know what life was anymore, except for some kind of ultimately meaningless existence where at the turn of a coin everything you had fought to build was destroyed. In the blink of an eye all became nothing; reality turning to some nonsensical illusion.

People always advised seeing a counsellor but I always declined. There was nothing they could do for me I thought. Soon however I found myself reading a lot of books about the afterlife and various cultural beliefs through the ages. I read esoteric literature and personal accounts from those who have had brushes with death. I read books about healing and unseen energies. I read about meditation and otherworldly connections. I read and I read and I read. Reading, it seems, was the only thing I had left. It gave me comfort. It gave me understanding. It gave me hope. It offered a foothold from where I could begin to clamber toward some kind of greater truth. I found solice within the thousands of pages I consumed and while they may never have given me the truth or the real answers I sought, they took me a little further in my journey. They widened my perspective on what constitutes reality and illuminated the mind. Those words – millions and millions of words written by so many others – were devoured by me and I am so thankful they were there for the reading. I can’t begin to think of what would have become of me had I not had those words to feed on. My questioning mind needed answers . . . needed to search.

After reading so much I decided that I wanted to write. Maybe there was something I could offer to others who were searching for answers too. I approached writing with such low confidence and uncertainty: uncertain about my true motives and for how helpful I could be in just writing. But over the months I have come to learn that my writing has helped some of you out there. You have been kind enough to write me and tell me as much . . . and I thank you. I never would have thought it: that my life, my pain, my struggle, through my words could resonate with so many and in so doing actually help in some unseen way.

But not only that: those words have helped ME. I often sit at this laptop of mine unable to think of what to write, feeling like some kind of imposter who has no business writing these articles each week. But always the words come. And when they do I’m always happy in the end. I’m surprised what comes and often have insights as I write. They may only be my thoughts, my worries, my tears but they’re born from some place that so many of you out there know only too well. And in that they have meaning and purpose and, although I often don’t know how, have the power to soothe and ease another.

I don’t question it and I don’t dwell on it. I just write and I read and know that it all helps . . .