My writing blocks aren’t actually about writing.

“I don’t know what to write.”

“This isn’t any good.”

“What’s even the point?”

These are some of the many blocks that show up anytime I try to write. Not sometimes. Every time. It doesn’t matter if it’s for a journal entry, a Substack Note, or one of my clients. Blocks like these show up every single time.

I used to believe them. I’d sit down in front of a blank page and think, “I don’t know what to write.” It wasn’t a question; it was pure fact. Sometimes I’d try to brainstorm anyway—this? or maybe that?—but that always ended in more frustration with myself. It would trigger a self-deprecating spiral, one that usually left me feeling like I was too stupid to figure out what to write about and therefore not a real writer at all.

If I was able to actually get a few words on the page, I’d eventually stop and think, “Wait. This isn’t any good.” Then, I’d delete the whole draft and start over, except when I tried to write again, I couldn’t come up with another, better way to write what I’d written before. I’d doubt the original idea was even worth writing about, then cast around for something more impressive to write about instead. But none of my other ideas were any good either. Eventually, I’d just give up and walk away, kicking myself for spending so much time “writing” without anything to show for it.

On the rare occasions when I’d somehow manage to come up with something to write and actually write it all the way through, it felt like a huge victory. But that feeling never seemed to last long. I’d reread my draft and—even if I thought it was pretty good—would think, “What’s even the point?” Out of nowhere, I’d get hit with an enormous sense of defeat, like writing anything at all was entirely pointless. I felt sure that no one would ever read my words. If they did, I knew they wouldn’t care. Even my client work seemed pointless: “Sure, it pays, but it isn’t real writing.” I’d abandon whole drafts to this feeling.

I thought I was broken. Stupid. Destined to be a failed, miserable writer. But I kept going, despite how frustrating and painful and frustratingly painful these blocks were. And eventually, after years of therapy and journaling,1 I realized that no, I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t stupid. I was not destined to be a failed, miserable writer. I wasn’t gearing up for a lifetime of frustratingly painful writer’s block.

Because I didn’t have writer’s block. I had emotional blocks.

“I don’t know what to write.” wasn’t about me not having any good ideas. It wasn’t about me being too stupid to come up with something worth writing about. It was about fear. Fear of writing something bad, dumb, controversial. Fear of writing something honest, vulnerable, risky. And most of all, fear of people eventually reading what I’d written and judging or rejecting me for it. All that fear made me freeze. It convinced me that writing nothing at all was safer than writing the “wrong” thing.

“This isn’t any good.” wasn’t about my skill as a writer. It wasn’t about whether my writing was good or impressive. It was about perfectionism, which is really just another kind of fear. By trying to write perfectly, I was trying to prove my worth and secure my place. To write anything less than perfect meant risking judgment and rejection, which was terrifying. At some level, I thought, “I’d rather never write again than give people a reason to reject me.” So I’d walk away instead of writing something imperfectly. 

“What’s even the point?” wasn’t about people never reading my words. It wasn’t about no one caring about my work. It wasn’t even about being a real writer or not. It was about doubt and uncertainty—and the fear that comes with them. About the unknown. About the uncontrollable. About what happens next. Instead of sharing my writing to find out what would actually happen, I’d reject what I’d written (and in some ways, myself) first, so that no one else ever got the chance to.

Understanding this was a huge unlock for me because it helped me shift from self-criticism to self-care. Instead of blaming myself or my writing for not being good enough, I was able to focus in on the fear. Where was it coming from? What was it really scared of? What could I do to help it feel safe enough to let me write? Suddenly, I wasn’t at the mercy of my fear anymore; I was responsible for it. It was up to me to take care of it, like a parent takes care of a small child.

These blocks still show up after years of writing and sharing my words. Even with tons of proof that it’s relatively safe for me to write and share honestly, I still catch myself staring at a blank page, wrestling with thoughts like “I don’t know what to write” and “What really is the point?” (Including right now. The urge to trash this draft is strong.) The difference is that now when blocks like these show up, I know what’s really going on—and I know how to work with the emotions that are trying to keep me safe, rather than just thrashing against them or ignoring them completely.

It’s that difference, more than anything else, that’s helped me get back to writing when I’m feeling blocked. I hope it helps you, too.