I woke up early this morning, determined to go through my whole morning routine, exactly as planned. For a couple of weeks I’ve been trying to implement it – wake up at 5 am, meditate, write, exercise.
It’s winter here in the UK, and at 5 am, it’s still pitch black. But that doesn’t bother me. I am determined to persevere this time.
For some reason, I’ve added writing to my routine. And I don’t even know why. I’ve always been bad at literature back at school, and all of my teachers confirmed that. I felt like paralysed when it came to any assignment which required writing – whether that was an essay, report, or a couple of sentences even.
But lately, I’ve been feeling this strange urge to write. And what’s even more surprising – I want to write a book. I have a topic in mind, although I’m not an expert in anything in particular.
So this morning, I open up Microsoft One Note – an app I’ve been using for years, to record anything at all – important letters I’ve written, To Dos, some journaling etc. Everything is organised neatly in notebooks. There are some really old entries here.
I decide to scroll through some of my old notebooks. One in particular catches my attention, it’s titled “My Book (title not known yet).
I open it up.
And suddenly, I’m staring at a full chapter of a book I had written. Dated December 2015.
That’s almost a decade ago.
My heart skips. I read a few lines, and a chill runs down my arms. Goosebumps.
I’ve always believed I wasn’t a writer. Sure, every now and then I’d get this strange, almost magnetic urge to write — like something inside me needed to come out — but I’d brush it off. Tell myself it’s just a passing phase. That I’m not good enough. That I wouldn’t stick with it anyway.
But here it was: proof. A full chapter. Written in my own words, my own voice — from a time I barely even remember. And not just any chapter, but one that mirrors exactly what I was planning to start writing today.
Seven years apart. Same book. Same idea. Same message.
And somehow, I had forgotten all about it.
It was as if my heart had been whispering to me all along — nudging, hinting, leaving breadcrumbs. Trying to show me that writing isn’t just something I want to do; it’s something I’m meant to do.
How did I miss all of that? How many times did my soul try to get my attention before I finally paused long enough to listen?
I close my eyes for a moment, the chapter still open on the screen.
Maybe I wasn’t ready back then. Maybe now I am.
Because I don’t think this is a coincidence. I think this is a second chance.
And this time, I’m going to follow it through.
………………….
It’s now 2025, three years after that early morning when I found the forgotten chapter.
I wish I could say I ran with that second chance immediately. That I wrote the whole book, published it, lived the dream.
But the truth is, life happened. Doubts crept back in. I got sidetracked.
And yet — the urge never left.
If anything, it’s stronger now. Louder. Clearer.
Today, I’m sitting down again. Not to start over, but to continue. Because deep down, I know this story still wants to be told.
I never thought I’d be writing. In fact, I was terrible in literature class at school — always dreading essays, convinced I just wasn’t “one of those people.” I hated writing back then. It felt forced, unnatural, like something other people were good at.
But life has a way of quietly leading us back to what matters.
Finding that forgotten chapter from 2015 — the same story I was just about to write again seven years later — made me realize something:
Even when I wasn’t listening, my heart was still speaking.
I used to think writing wasn’t for me. Now I know it’s always been mine.
And this time, I’m not turning away from it.
So if you’ve ever had a quiet nudge — a dream you shelved, a voice you silenced — maybe it’s time to check back in.
Your past self might have left you a message.
And who knows? It could be the very thing you need to hear today.