How Writing Has Made Me A Better Person (& How It Can Do The Same For You)

Aloha world~

It’s been a while since I’ve come onto the blog and shared anything personal, so after giving it some thought, I'm here to give a small heart-to-heart.

A few nights ago, as I was drifting off to sleep, I had a quiet realization: writing has made me a better person. A better friend. A better partner. A better version of myself.

It’s something that’s been brewing under the surface for a while now, and I finally have the words for it—or at least, I’m going to try.

How Writing Made Me a Better Person

Let’s be real: I didn’t start writing to become a better human being. I started writing because I had stories clawing at the inside of my skull. Because I had character's voices living in my bones, begging to be written. Because I had feelings that demanded to be felt. I wrote to escape, to cope, to create worlds where I had control, to bring characters to life who could carry the weight of the words I never found the courage to voice myself.

Writing was a refuge, a rebellion, a quiet act of power in a world that often felt loud and out of control. And while that initial spark came from desperation and creativity intertwining, it was the consistency of the act that transformed me.

But somewhere along the way, writing started to shape me. It wasn’t sudden. There was no epiphany moment, no lightbulb flashing over my head. It was subtle, like a river slowly carving a canyon over time—almost imperceptible until you stand back and realize the entire landscape has changed. Writing has this quiet persistence. It nudges you into reflection, chisels away the surface noise, and demands you sit still long enough to listen to your own thoughts.

It taught me patience. I don’t mean the romantic kind of patience where I stare at the sunset and wait for the words to arrive like divine inspiration. I mean sitting in front of a blinking cursor, day after day, wrestling with sentences that refuse to behave. I mean writing the same scene twelve different ways, only to return to draft number four. It taught me to show up even when the muse ghosted me. It taught me that creativity is more sweat than spark, and that showing up for the work is, in itself, an act of love and commitment. Writing is the long game—it rewards consistency over brilliance.

Writing deepened my empathy. When you spend enough time inside the heads of characters who are nothing like you—characters who believe things you don't believe, who make choices you'd never make, who come from lives you’ve never lived—you start to soften. You start to understand. You become less quick to judge, more curious, more open. Because you’ve had to ask yourself, “Why would someone do this?” and not let yourself off the hook with easy answers. You learn that every person is the result of a thousand unseen influences—and so are you. And the more people you create on the page, the more real people you learn to see with grace and nuance.

Writing humbled me. Oh, you think you're smart until your first draft hits the page and reads like a middle school group chat. You think you’ve mastered your craft until you reread last month’s chapter and wonder who let you near a keyboard. But in that humility, there’s growth. You learn to embrace imperfection, to keep learning, to ask for feedback, to fail forward. You start to understand that “bad writing” isn’t failure—it’s a beginning. It reminded me that mastery doesn’t come from talent alone, but from relentless revision, from falling in love with the process even when the outcome feels uncertain. Writing, more than anything, has made me teachable.

Writing has given me courage. Not the slay-a-dragon kind, but the quieter, steadier courage to speak honestly. To tell the truth, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. Writing helped me find my voice—and to believe it deserved to be heard. It made me braver in my relationships, more honest with myself, and more willing to say, “This is who I am, flaws and all.” It showed me that authenticity isn’t loud—it’s persistent. It’s the willingness to keep showing up as yourself, again and again, even when it's uncomfortable.

And most importantly? Writing saved me during some of the darkest times of my life. It was my therapy long before I ever sat across from a therapist. It held up a mirror, made me ask, “Why?” and “What if?” It challenged me to think critically—not just about plot or theme, but about myself. Writing forced me to go deep: into cultures, into characters, into trauma—and that deep dive bled into my real life. The way I questioned my characters—what they think they want vs. what they actually need—made me question my own desires. “Is this really what I need to be happy and fulfilled? Or is it just the narrative I’ve been told to want?”

It gave me a deeper relationship with myself. It peeled back layers I didn’t even know I had. It forced me to ask questions I’d been avoiding, to confront insecurities, to celebrate things I’d always minimized. It gave me space to become. It’s helped me dig deep into my own demons, confront them, battle them, and emerge—if not unscathed—then stronger and more self-aware. It helped me understand that writing is not just a mirror—it’s also a scalpel. It cuts away what no longer serves you and reveals what lies underneath. It taught me that writing isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about having the courage to ask the right questions. And I’ve learned that just like characters, we don’t always know what we need. But through writing, we can learn how to uncover it.

How Writing Can Make You a Better Person, Too

If writing has transformed me, it can transform you too. Writing isn’t reserved for the tortured artist or the professional novelist—it’s for anyone willing to sit with themselves long enough to listen. When you write, you confront your thoughts. You name your fears. You tease apart the tangled web of memory, emotion, and experiences. You come face to face with your past, your patterns, and your potential.

Writing teaches you how to be present with yourself, how to reflect without spiraling, and how to capture clarity in the middle of chaos. Writing helps you pause and examine. It asks you to get curious, to ask questions, to zoom in and reflect. It teaches patience, compassion, honesty. It challenges you to look deeper, not just at your characters, but at the people around you—and most importantly, at yourself. It turns pain into understanding, chaos into clarity, silence into voice. If you’re open to it, writing will become one of the most powerful tools for self-awareness, emotional growth, and inner healing you’ll ever have.

So no, I didn’t start writing to become a better person. But writing, in its own stubborn, beautiful, transformative way, made me one anyway. And for that, I’ll never stop putting words on the page.

Write without fear, ignore the inner-perfectionist, and when in doubt, have a shot of tequila—then keep writing.

—Bair✍︎

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