The Healing Power of Words: Finding Yourself Through Writing - Abhisshek Om Chakravarty | Holistic Life Coach & Mindfulness Mentor

Abhisshek Om Chakravarty
Apr 11
5 min read

Updated: Apr 28

There's something nearly holy about the quiet before dawn. I've been sitting on the rooftop of my house since shortly after five, with a cup of tea that's been cold for hours, staring into space. The surroundings are bathed in that odd pre-dawn light—not quite night, not yet morning—and I feel drawn to express these thoughts in language.

For a while, I have been reflecting a great deal on writing. Not the vetted, shiny stuff we put into the world but the unfiltered, authentic stuff we write just for ourselves. The stuff that makes sense of the mess in our brains.

Writing has always been my anchor. Whenever I feel overwhelmed or scattered, the mere act of putting pen to paper grounds me. Thoughts that once felt tangled and loud in my head begin to soften the moment; they take form on a page. They don't always make sense initially, but at least they stop spinning and begin settling.

Have you ever felt that too?

Just the previous week, one of my clients—Priya, the head of a fast-scaling startup—came to our session clearly unraveled. "I feel like I'm drowning amidst all the expectations," she confessed, twisting her scarf anxiously. "It gets so noisy in my head that I can no longer hear my own thoughts."

I recognized that feeling. I've experienced it. I recall a time when I was attempting to be everything to everyone—the ideal guide, the reliable partner, the trusted friend. By doing so, I'd forgotten my own voice entirely.

So I asked her softly, "Have you ever just written it all down? Not for anyone else. Just for you."

She gazed uncertain. "I am not a writer," she replied, as so many do when they are convinced that writing must be beautiful or deep.

"That's the magic," I told her. "There is no method to it. You simply start. Where you are.”

I told her about how writing allowed me to live through some of my most trying times. I told her about the journals that I've accumulated over the years—not because they're sage or beautiful, but because they hold my journey. They've kept my chaos, my questioning, my dark corners, my epiphanies. Those pages are a record of my life in all its authenticity.

"Writing isn't about creating something good," I said to her. "It's about creating inner space—to feel, to breathe, to just be."

That conversation lingered with me. It reminded me how many times writing becomes a turning point for the people I work with.

Consider Aarav, for instance. He showed up to me completely drained after all those years of shaping himself to meet everyone else's needs. During one of our sessions, I asked him, "How do you feel at this moment?" He attempted, but the words refused to emerge.

So I offered, "Perhaps try writing it down when you return home. Don't overanalyze. Just let whatever comes, come.

The next week, Aarav came in. different. Lighter, somehow. He produced a crumpled piece of paper and said, almost bashfully, "I did what you told me. I wrote it down. It's probably rubbish, but."

It wasn’t nonsense. It was raw, searing, and honest. He wrote, “I feel like I’ve been wearing a mask so long, I’ve forgotten what my real face looks like underneath.” He wrote of exhaustion—not the tiredness of the body, but of the soul.

That session was the spark. Aarav continued to write between sessions, and gradually, pieces of himself who had been silent began reasserting themselves. Minor adjustments—lonely strolls, learning to say no where necessary, reviving long-buried passions—began piling up. Some months in, he told me, "Writing hasn't fixed everything, but it's made things clearer. Less constricting."

Again and again, I've experienced this power in my work. Writing is a doorway between what is conscious and what is unconscious. It calls forth clarity that even long hours of discussion may not bring. There's something about the movement of writing—pen scratching paper or fingers flying across keys—that awakens parts of our mind we almost never use.

I recall Meera, one of my clients who reached me burdened by worry following a whirlwind of life events—a new city, a new career, a break-up. Her thoughts were a maelstrom of what-ifs and worst-case outcomes. I said, "Write a letter—to the part of you that's anxious and scared, from the part that's calm and centered. Say everything you wish she could know."

She was uncertain but consented. I logged off and told her will catch back after twenty minutes. Her eyes were wet, but firm.

“I’ve never been this kind to myself before,” she whispered. “Writing this letter. it helped me see myself with compassion.”

That practice became regular for Meera—writing letters between her inner parts. Over time, she stopped being at war with herself. She became more integrated, more balanced, and began making decisions from a place of clarity, not panic.

There's science to support this, naturally. Expressive writing has been found to lower stress, boost immunity, and increase well-being. But to me, it's something more than science. It's sacred. Writing allows us to respect our own inner worlds—particularly in a culture that desires everything packaged and palatable.

I was by myself in our home one winter evening. Sneha was out visiting her sister. Our two dogs, Harry and Ron (of course, named after those wizarding heroes), were patrolling the Varanda, and I could feel this restlessness within me.

I covered myself with a blanket and opened my journal with no idea what I was going to write. What flowed out was a letter to my dad, who died five years ago.

I wrote everything I never said. About how sometimes I still grab the cell phone to tell him something important. About how his voice sometimes haunts my dreams, so real I wake up hoping to hear him in the next room.

Tears flowed—not of pain, but of release. Writing didn't bring him back. But it gave my grief shape, voice, presence. And in that, I found healing.

I offer this not as a coach, but as a person. Writing isn't something I suggest—it's something I come back to, time and time again. In crisis, in celebration, in doubt. It's not a privilege or a gift. It's a reflection. A sanctuary. A journey.

And if you're sitting there going, "But I'm not a writer," listen to this: You don't need to be. Writing as healing is not about grace. It's about authenticity. It's about facing yourself rather than fleeing.

Finding Yourself!