There was a time when my emotions were more than just a part of me—they defined me. As a child, I often felt that my feelings were too much for the world around me. In fact, I remember being labeled “unreasonable” and “volatile” more times than I care to count, a reputation I earned with every emotional outburst. In a household where stoicism was prized and the unspoken rule was to endure without letting anyone see the weight you carried, I was a walking contradiction. Emotions, for me, were both a gift and a burden—so much so that they led me straight to poetry, where I could channel all that intensity into words.
As I grew older, my emotions found their way into my relationships. I entered a marriage where space for feelings was limited, where intensity wasn’t encouraged. Over time, the distance between my inner world and the people around me became unbearable. My divorce, when it came, was as much about separating from my ex as it was about reclaiming my own identity—the “me” I had buried beneath years of trying to conform to an idea of myself that wasn’t true. It was a slow, painful journey of unlearning old stories about what parts of me were acceptable and what parts weren’t.
Even now, healing is an ongoing process. But what’s different today is that I’m learning how to embrace my emotional landscape without fear, without shame. And poetry—always poetry—has been my guide. I recently came across a poem by Callista Buchen, “Taking Care,” which felt like a revelation. In it, Buchen writes about sitting with grief, not trying to make it go away, but simply allowing it to be:
“I sit with my grief. I mother it. I hold its small, hot hand. I don’t say, shhh. I don’t say, it is okay. I wait until it is done having feelings. Then we stand and we go wash the dishes.”
These words resonated deeply. I realized that my poetry—and perhaps even life itself—wasn’t about forcing my emotions into submission. It was about allowing them to exist, to move through me, and then move on. Poetry, for me, is the space where that happens.
But, then, something shifted. For a time, I couldn’t feel much of anything. My emotions, which had once been so vivid and consuming, seemed to evaporate. It wasn’t as though I didn’t experience joy, sadness, or stress—I did—but the feelings no longer carried the weight of meaning. They didn’t settle into my bones or offer any kind of insight. They just… were. I couldn’t even bring myself to write or read poetry, that art form that had always been my emotional refuge. Every time I tried to reconnect with it, I felt nothing. It was as if my emotional compass had gone missing.
For nearly a year, I was adrift. The poetry books I picked up didn’t speak to me. The words fell flat, devoid of the resonance they had once held. I couldn’t understand what was happening, but I knew it wasn’t the fault of the poems themselves—it was something inside me, something I couldn’t quite reach.
Then, unexpectedly, that emotional vacancy began to fill again. Slowly, the ability to process my feelings returned. And with that return came a rekindling of my connection to poetry. I started reading again—not just reading, but feeling the words. I embarked on a personal challenge to read 100 poems in a year, and in doing so, I began to rediscover the parts of myself that had been silent for so long. The poems helped me find my voice again.
Reading poetry became more than just a task—it became a way to reawaken my emotional life. The poems didn’t just sit on the page; they engaged with me, pulling me back into the world of feeling. Some of them even brought me to tears, like when I read The Second O in Sorrow. In one poignant moment of the poem, the narrator reflects on the distance between a father and his teenage son:
“But there is also something there so far beyond me it is like looking at a distant cloud, or that feeling when the geese begin to cover the sky in vees. He is leaving me and I am feeling something mixed inside the bowl of the second O of sorrow.”
Reading this, I couldn’t help but think of my own child, now grown, and the quiet grief of watching him leave the nest. My heart ached as I recognized that feeling—the simultaneous joy and sorrow of seeing someone you love step into their own life, away from you. It reminded me of a memory I have of holding my son, as a little boy, through a storm—comforting him as I watched the world outside feel dangerous and uncertain.
I’m not the same person I was when I first fell in love with poetry, but returning to it—allowing it to fill the spaces inside me—has been a part of my healing process. Poetry, I’ve come to realize, is not just about expressing emotions; it’s about allowing those emotions to live inside you, to be seen, felt, and understood, even if only by yourself.
And so, this is why poetry matters. It’s not just about the words or the ideas they convey. It’s about the way poetry makes us feel—about how it can reawaken the parts of us that have been buried or forgotten. In a way, poetry is a mirror to our inner worlds, helping us see the complexity of who we are. And perhaps, just as importantly, poetry allows us to feel alive again, to process the griefs and joys we often cannot express in any other way.
After all, in the end, poetry is about embracing all that we are. All the feelings, all the contradictions, all the things that make us human. It’s a language of the soul—and for me, it’s the language that has helped me rediscover my own voice.
