Why I Write, A Year On

What has changed in a year of Letters from a Psychotherapist

c. John Moyer

A year ago, I (sort of) re-launched Letters from a Psychotherapist with a sense of arrival. I felt I had done major work—I had ‘done significant healing,’ ‘untangled the mess,’ and learned to ‘embrace imperfections.’ All of that was true, but this past year of writing has forced me to admit that those milestones weren’t a finish line; they were just the first few laps of a lifelong marathon of learning.

I now know that healing, like love, is an action word. It’s about doing the work, again and again, and always learning. Chop wood, carry water.

At the same time, I’m constantly reminded that I’m a human being, not a human doing. It’s the moment-by-moment practice of ‘showing myself compassion,’ not just a skill I mastered in therapy years ago. I still have days where the shadows of my childhood in a uniquely dysfunctional family loom large, and the anxiety I mentioned a year ago tries to claw its way back. It reminds me of a drawing my therapist had in her office thirty years ago with the caption: Everything I’ve ever let go of had claw marks on it.

The difference now is that we have a community here—this circle of readers and fellow travelers—and a stronger internal compass to navigate those waves together.

This newsletter, Letters From A Psychotherapist, has never been just a place to share stories of triumph over the past. It’s a journal of the daily maintenance required to stay broken-cycle free. It’s about the ongoing work of forgiving myself for mistakes made yesterday or last week, not just the betrayals of two or three decades ago. The chaos might be quieter now, but the discipline of meaning-making remains essential.

An Unexpected Writer

There’s one more piece to this story. I’ve always been an insecure writer. Writing, for me, was viewed through the lens of my past struggles with reading and writing—it was an area of inadequacy. I hesitated to call myself a writer.

But after publishing at least one essay a week (usually more) for the past year, the evidence is undeniable. I can legitimately call myself one. As to what kind of writer I am? I’ll leave that for you, my first one thousand subscribers, to decide.

If last year was about arrival, this one has been about endurance—and I suspect the next will be about becoming.

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