I don’t really know when it became a habit.
Maybe it started with my childhood diaries.
Maybe I’ve always been wired this way.
When a thought comes to me, I need to write it down.
When I have an idea, I write it down.
When I’m planning something, I write down all the details.
When something inspires me, I write it down before I forget.
Sometimes it’s in a notebook.
Sometimes it’s in the Notes app on my phone.
And sometimes, apparently, it’s on whatever piece of paper happens to be within reach.
I have accepted that I will probably never run out of things to write on.
Or notebooks to buy.
We already know this. 😂
But I’ve been thinking about why I keep writing things down.
And I think I’ve finally figured it out.
I don’t just write because I want to remember.
I write because sometimes I need to see my thoughts outside of my head.
A thought on its own can remain just a thought.
But once I write it down, somehow it becomes clearer.
Sometimes it becomes a plan.
Sometimes it becomes a story.
Sometimes it becomes a possibility.
And sometimes…
it simply becomes something I can let go of.
That’s probably why writing has always felt so natural to me.
It’s how my brain works.
I like things organized.
I like ideas arranged.
I like plans with details.
And apparently, I like my thoughts to have somewhere to live.
Some of the things I’ve written down over the years are completely ordinary.
And those are often the memories I’m most grateful to have kept.
I remember writing about my eldest when she was about three or four years old.
Her grandmother was visiting us and was cooking lunch while my little girl was watching Finding Nemo.
She loved that movie.
She could watch it several times a day.
One day, her grandmother called her for lunch.
“Wowa, what is lunch?”
Her grandmother showed her the fried fish.
My little girl looked at it…
and suddenly cried,
“Oh no! Nemo!”
Then she ran away.
No lunch.
😂
It makes me laugh even now.
But I probably wouldn’t remember that tiny moment if I hadn’t written it down.
That’s what writing does for me.
It catches the little things before they disappear.
Much like photographs.
I love taking photographs for the same reason.
A photograph freezes a moment.
Writing does something similar.
Except instead of freezing what something looked like, it preserves what something felt like.
For a long time, my writing was completely private.
I was the girl writing,
Dear Diary…
I wrote about ordinary days.
Crushes.
Secrets.
Little dramas.
Later, I wrote about things I couldn’t tell anyone.
I wrote because I needed somewhere to put the things I was carrying.
I never imagined anyone would pay to read my life.
Why would they?
Who was I?
How could a diary become a book?
And who would want to buy one?
I certainly never imagined that one day I would call myself an author.
That part still makes me laugh a little.
Me? An author?
I think something changed when I started blogging.
For years, I had been writing mostly for myself.
Then suddenly, people were reading.
Strangers.
People I didn’t know.
People who would tell me they enjoyed something I had written.
Some even followed my blog.
That was probably the first time I realized that maybe the things I wrote weren’t only useful to me.
Maybe my experiences could mean something to someone else too.
And eventually, the idea of a book appeared.
I didn’t even know exactly where it came from.
I remember discovering the meaning of the word memoir and thinking…
Hmm.
Maybe.
I explored publishing.
I tried IngramSpark.
I hit a wall with the ISBN issue.
So I tried Amazon.
And honestly, I didn’t expect to be approved.
But I was.
And now there is a book sitting on my shelf with my name on it.
The Life We Chose.
Sometimes I look at it and still think,
How did that happen?
I know how.
God.
Because there have been so many moments in this new life when I feel like I’m being guided somewhere I couldn’t have planned for myself.
Becoming an author was one of them.
And here’s the funny thing.
Publishing a book didn’t make me stop writing.
Not even close.
You have seen my notebooks.
You haven’t seen my phone.
😂
There are enough unfinished pieces in my Notes app to keep me busy for years.
WIP.
Work in progress.
Or, depending on my mood:
Writing in progress.
I write ideas for future books.
Things my daughters say.
Business ideas I want to share with other freelancers.
Thoughts I don’t want to lose.
Things I’m grateful for.
Possible essays.
Possible stories.
Possible books.
And perhaps someday, some of those scribbles will become something I publish.
Or maybe they won’t.
That’s okay too.
Not everything we write has to become a book.
Some words are simply meant to help us understand ourselves.
I’ve also learned that not every memory needs to be preserved.
Some memories are worth keeping because they make us smile.
The funny things my girls said.
Family moments.
Little adventures.
Ordinary days that I know I’ll want to remember years from now.
But there are memories I wrote down for an entirely different reason.
There were nights when I had nobody to tell my worries to.
So I told my notebook.
I cried onto its pages.
I wrote down my anger.
My fear.
My questions.
My pain.
The notebook listened.
And once the words were out, I didn’t always need to keep them.
Some of those journals eventually became ashes.
And strangely enough, that felt like writing too.
The pen and paper had already listened.
They had carried what I needed them to carry.
I didn’t need to carry it forever.
Maybe that’s what writing has always been for me.
Not just remembering.
Choosing what deserves to be remembered.
And choosing what I’m finally ready to release.
Today, the things I write are different.
There is more gratitude in them.
More faith.
More laughter.
More plans.
More possibilities.
There are still difficult memories, of course.
But they no longer occupy every page.
My notebooks now belong to the life I’m living.
And perhaps the life I’m still becoming.
Sometimes I think about that little girl who used to hide her diaries and ask for notebooks with locks.
She never knew where those words would eventually take her.
She certainly never imagined she would someday write a memoir.
Or have a website.
Or have strangers read her words.
Or sit here wondering what book she might write next because people are already asking when the second one is coming.
😂
But maybe she was already becoming a writer.
She just didn’t know the word for it yet.
I keep writing things down because I want the woman behind the name Louise Marie Gonzales to live on through her words.
Not because a name needs to live forever.
But because I want the things I’ve learned to outlive me.
I want my girls to have my words.
Not only photographs of me.
Not only memories of conversations we’ve had.
But pages.
Stories.
Lessons.
Pieces of the woman I became.
I write under a pen name, and there are parts of my story I choose to keep private. But the words I share are honest. They come from a real life, real experiences, real mistakes, real faith, and a real desire to leave something meaningful behind.
I don’t need everyone to know everything about me for my words to matter.
Perhaps that’s one of the things I’ve learned along the way:
You can protect your privacy and still tell the truth.
And if, years from now, my girls read my books and my pages, I hope they won’t simply see the author Louise Marie Gonzales.
I hope they’ll recognize their mother in the words.
The woman who loved them.
The woman who kept choosing life.
The woman who found God in the middle of her pain.
The woman who tried, stumbled, learned, laughed, and kept going.
To My Girls,
One day, when you find these pages, I hope you don’t only see the things I wrote.
I hope you see the woman behind them.
A woman who tried.
A woman who made mistakes.
A woman who found God in the middle of her pain.
A woman who loved you fiercely.
A woman who kept choosing life.
And if my words are still here when I’m no longer there to tell you these things myself…
then I hope they remind you of what I have always wanted you to know:
You are loved.
You are capable.
You are enough.
And whatever life brings you…
keep choosing the life that allows you to become fully who God created you to be.
Love always,
Mom
Thank you for spending a few quiet moments here.
May you leave carrying a little more hope than when you arrived.
With love,
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