Writing Through the Numbness: Finding Freedom Between the Lines
- Nov 21
- 3 min read
By Amie A Rich
When I sat down to write my first book, I thought I was simply documenting what I’d learned about self-love andhealing. I wanted to share the tools, stories, and insights that helped mereclaim my worth after years of people-pleasing, perfectionism, and burnout. But what I didn’t expect was that the process itself would become one ofthe most profound healing journeys of my life.
Starting with my first journal-style book,The ABCs of Self-Love: A Journey to Rediscovering Yourself, I caughtthe writing bug. I tend to write the way I talk, and I take pride in having my work feel likeyou’rechattingwith adear friend. That book opened the floodgates. It reminded me that words have a frequency, and when written fromthe heart, they carry healing energy. From there, I began writing and creating meditations, blending mybackground in coaching, hypnotherapy, and energy work.
Ultimately, my healing journey led me to write my next solo book, coming this spring: Beyond Numbing: How Self-Love Heals the Wounds We Hide.
It took a pivotal moment in my life—losing a parent—for me to realize I had been living life numb. I had learnedto survive rather than feel, to achieve rather than be. Writing requiredme to slow down long enough tofeel.Andfeeling was something I had learned was too dangerous. Feeling meant accepting that I had been silencing myselfto keep peace with others. It meant remembering and witnessing the parts of myself I had spent decadestrying tooutrun.Writingbecame both a mirror and a medicine, reflecting truths I hadn’t yet spoken and offering space forthe emotions I’d buried beneath achievement.
At first, I resisted. There were days I sat at my desk staring at the blank screen, afraid of what would come out ifI stopped editing myself. I worried about how people would see me if I told the truth—about my childhood, mypatterns, my pain. But somewhere between those fears, I found freedom. Because when you write from a placeof truth,judgment loses its power.
Putting my story on paper was an act of surrender. I stopped trying to make it sound perfect and started letting it be real.The tears that fell onto the pages weren’t weakness; they were release. The memories I once avoidedbecame invitations to compassion. Memories surfaced that had been gone for decades, and when they bubbledup, I had no choice but to acknowledgeandhonor them. The words that once felt too heavy to carry became lightwhen I realized they could help someone else feel less alone.
Writing taught me that purpose doesn’t come from having all the answers. I firmly believe that healing,andwriting,come from being brave enough to share the messiness of life. It’s about turning pain into wisdom, shameinto connection, and survival into strength. The more I wrote, the more I saw how my personal story mirrored thestories of so many others quietly struggling to love themselves, too.
What started as a personal project evolved into a movement—one that helps people recognize how numbing mayhave protected them once but now keeps them from truly living.
Through writing, I learned that vulnerability isthe bridge between purpose and impact. It’s not the polished version of our stories that inspires others; it’s thehonest, messy, fully human parts that remind usthatwe’re all connected. Writing has brought me home to myself,showing me that every story we’re brave enough to tell has the power to heal—not just us, but those who read itand whisper,“me too.”
The pen is more than ink on paper. It’s a lifeline—a sacred tool that transforms purpose into impact. Writingreminded me that our greatest impact doesn’t come from perfection, but from presence. And sometimes, the mostpowerful thing we can do is simply tell the truth.
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