Why I Write... About Health

I write because writing is the most efficient and effective way to reach into my soul, grab the slimy bits, pull them out, and put them on display. Why I want to put them on display is another question altogether. I need to. I must. If I don't, they fester and rot such that great sadness consumes me. At times, I am lucky—what I pull out from my soul is a rough nugget of glimmering joy or a jagged ember of passion. Yet these too must be extricated and catalogued lest they take up too much room in an already full heart. By writing, by sharing, I form tiny exhibits in a personal museum. The only admission charge for others is time and the willingness to read. For myself, the cost is much greater, but perhaps so is the reward, as it is so hard to ascertain what benefit my museum of words brings to others.

Recently, I was told that I helped motivate someone to become an organ donor. One organ donor can save up to eight lives. That person's decision is real. The benefit is real. With myself as an organ donor too, that means that as many as sixteen lives may be saved. What a profound ability to be able to give the gift of life. Giving a sense of hope, of solace, of reprieve, of comfort is why I write about health. I write about my own health because I am nobody. In being nobody, I am everybody. If I have survived, carried on, pushed through, and moved forward, then so can everybody—and that everybody includes you. 

This blog post is part of WEGO Health's Health Activists Writer's Month Challenge (#HAWMC). Prompt: I write about my health because...