Dinner with friends can do weird things to you. One minute, you’re debating the best queso in town or swapping reality TV hot takes, and the next minute—bam—someone looks you dead in the eye and casually asks something that cracks your ribcage open:
“So, why now? Why start writing all this now?”
Not in a rude way. Not even in a skeptical way. Just curious. Genuinely interested. It was one of those questions that kind of hovers in the air for a second, like it’s waiting to be taken seriously.
And I did pause (which is rare), because if you know me at all, you know I usually have about 14 answers ready at all times—most of them sarcastic, some deeply emotional, at least one involving a Bon Jovi lyric. Because the truth is, I’ve always written. I just haven’t always shared it.
I mean always. I have journals with middle school doodles and dramatic entries about cafeteria injustice. I have notebooks from college with plot points for stories I never finished and sticky notes I slapped onto my dashboard when inspiration hit at a red light. I have entire Google Docs full of quotes and blog titles and things I wanted to say someday when the timing felt right. My phone has voice memos from grocery store parking lots and 2 a.m. brain dumps that make absolutely no sense in daylight. Writing has always been how I’ve processed the world—through rhythm, through words, through a keyboard that sometimes feels more like a lifeline than a tool.
But it’s also how I’ve hidden.
Because writing privately? It’s safe.
It’s like having a secret treehouse where no one can correct you or misunderstand you or roll their eyes at your overly sentimental paragraph about how the sunlight hit the side of the coffee mug just right. (And yes, I have written that paragraph. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. It’s fine.)
So when my friend asked me, “Why now?” the answer wasn’t simple. But it was clear.
Photo by Yeyo Salas on Unsplash
Now is a return. To myself. To the girl with dirt under her fingernails and big dreams in her heart. The one who sat in library corners and devoured books like they were oxygen. The oldest of five, bossy (fine, “assertive”) from birth, who made up musicals while setting the dinner table. The grown-up version of that girl—now a suburban wife and mom with a floppy-eared beagle, a Costco-sized bag of emotional complexity, and a heart that still believes in the beauty of a well-timed meme and a belted song lyric—is finally making her way back home.
I remember the first time I opened a blank doc again, years after telling myself I was “too busy” or “not creative anymore.” It was quiet in the house. One kid was back at college, one was off with friends, and I had a window of silence that felt like it was waiting for me. I sat down, heart racing, and typed a single sentence that made no sense. But I didn’t stop. Something opened. Something stirred. Something came back.
I’m not writing just because I like the sound of my own voice (though my inner narrator is pretty hilarious). I’m writing because it moves me. It changes me. It pulls the tangled knots of my thoughts into something that makes sense—or at least makes me feel a little less alone.
And if you’re here reading this, maybe you feel that too.
Maybe you’re here not because you need one more curated blog or Pinterest-perfect post, but because you just want someone to sit across the table from you—messy bun, open heart, too much caffeine—and say, “Same.”
That’s what this is.
That’s what I’m creating.
Not a brand. Not a performance.
I’m making room.
A space where we can drop the act. Where there’s room for snacks on one of those lazy Susans so everyone can reach, half-finished thoughts scribbled on sticky notes, and yes, the playlist is open for requests—no judgment, even if it’s boy band ballads.
Because I don’t do fake.
Not fake cheese, not fake butter, not fake people.
I have no time for it. I have even less patience for it.
It’s real or nothing.
I want the raw stuff. The things we whisper about but don’t post. The “I’m fine” when we’re falling apart. The grocery store parking lot tears. The kitchen dance parties. The story behind the story. I want all of it. And I want to write about it, too.
I’m drawn to writers who hold grace and truth in the same hand—who make you feel like you’re being seen without being judged. I love characters who haunt you long after the story ends. I want to know what they eat for breakfast, if they cry in the car, if they do laundry while mentally narrating their day in the voice of Morgan Freeman. I want to care about things I didn’t even know I could care about. That’s the kind of writing I want to do.
I want you to feel like you’ve found someone who could be your older sister, your work bestie, or your slightly overprotective internet mom who believes you’re destined for greatness, sends unsolicited pep talks like it’s her full-time job, and keeps telling you to bring a jacket even though you’re clearly a grown adult. I want you to feel like you can take a breath here.
If you’re tired, overstimulated, or just looking for a moment of “please, no small talk right now,” you’re safe here.
You don’t have to be impressive to belong.
You don’t have to earn a seat.
Just bring your real self.
Maybe a cupcake. (Cupcakes go straight to the inner circle.)
Everything else? We’ll figure it out as we go.
And no, I don’t have all the answers.
But I do have a brain full of wild ideas, a stubborn streak that could move mountains, and a love for words that won’t quit. My journey’s been full of pivots—wife, writer, photographer, HR leader, ministry leader, mom, maker of large pots of sauce “by feel,” and person who deeply believes that small kindnesses can shift entire days.
So yeah—why now?
Because now is finally the season where I can write from a place of wholeness.
Not perfection. Not certainty. Just wholeness.
With all the cracks and sarcasm and honesty and softness still intact.
I’m not here to impress. I’m here to connect.
To tell the truth. To make space.
To crack the window and let the light in.
And if my words do that for you—even just once—then that’s more than enough.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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