When the Words Won’t Come: Writing Through the Slump

When I started this blog, I made a quiet promise to myself: only write when it feels right.

Not when it’s convenient.

Not when it’s expected.

Not because I should.

Only when it feels true. Alive. Like something in me is asking to be spoken.

But last night? Nothing felt right.

I tried. I opened the laptop with good intentions and an open heart. I started writing one blog… then another… and another. Three drafts in, and each one felt flat, forced, not quite worthy of sharing. Not because the topics weren’t meaningful. Not because I don’t have anything to say. But because something inside me knew: this isn’t it.

And honestly, that kind of knowing is both frustrating and strangely comforting. Because even in the slump, especially in the slump, I’m listening. I’m honoring the voice that says, Wait. Not yet. Don’t force this.

The truth is, I’m in a writing slump. A place where the words feel just out of reach, like they’re underwater and I can’t quite grab hold. It’s not that the stories aren’t there. They are. But they’re not ready to surface. And maybe neither am I.

And here’s the part I don’t want to admit:

I’m scared.

What if the right words never come back?

It’s a quiet fear that creeps in when the page stays blank too long. A fear that maybe I’ve already said the best things I had to say. That I’ve used up the magic. That I won’t find the language again to make meaning out of the mess.

That’s a scary feeling, for someone who’s always used words to understand the world, to connect, to heal.

So… what now?

Maybe now, I rest.

Maybe now, I notice.

Maybe now is for listening, not producing.

Maybe the quiet is part of the creative process.

Maybe the slump isn’t a block, but a pause. A necessary slowing down. A moment to reconnect with why I write in the first place, not for content, not for clicks, not even for clarity, but for connection. With myself. With you. With something bigger.

So this isn’t a polished essay. It’s a breadcrumb. A marker on the trail that says, I’m still here. I haven’t stopped. I’m just deep in the forest, listening for the next line.

And when it feels right, really right, I’ll be back. I’ll have something to say that’s worthy not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real.

Until then, if you’re in your own kind of slump, writing or otherwise, maybe give yourself permission to pause. To trust that the spark always returns. That worthiness was never about productivity to begin with.

And maybe, just maybe, the slump is a sacred part of the story.

Have you ever felt like the words, or your voice, went missing? How do you move through your own creative slumps? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Maybe we can find our way through this together.