The Many Forms of Expression: Writing, Emotion, and Understanding

Introduction: When Expression Feels Just Out of Reach

There is something about the process of picking up a pen or pencil that my brain both loves and hates. The creative, generative part of me lights up in response, yet my hands can never quite keep up. Typing feels different—faster, more fluid—but still, not the same. And then there’s speech-to-text, my usual refuge when my thoughts are moving too quickly for my fingers.

But today, a new barrier.

What about the days when I am too sad to speak? When saying the words out loud makes them real in a way I am not ready to face?

On those days—on this day—I type. I pause between sentences, taking the time to consider each word. I imagine myself holding a pen, as if the act of writing by hand might give me permission to move forward. I ask myself: What would I say next? What could I express that I am able to face?

Expression is never just about words. It is about history, conditioning, emotion, and the subconscious patterns we don’t always realize are shaping our creative process.

The Physical Act of Writing & Expression

I was born in the early ’80s. My earliest experiences of writing were deeply tactile—I handwrote essays, typed papers on a typewriter, and used the library’s computers for research. I took notes by hand in school, feeling the weight of the pen pressing into the paper. For years, this was how I processed information.

Now, when I sit down to write, I still feel the echoes of those experiences. The act of writing is not just about forming sentences; it is a learned process, one that carries with it decades of personal history. And even though I type most of the time now, I know that my brain still remembers.

We all have this—our own ingrained ways of expressing ourselves, shaped by the tools we’ve used, the environments we’ve been in, the emotions we associate with creativity. Some people feel most alive when writing by hand; others need a keyboard, the ability to keep up with the speed of their thoughts. And for some, expression only flows when they speak aloud, as if their voice is the key to unlocking meaning.

But what happens when none of those methods feel accessible?

When Emotions Influence Expression

Sadness changes everything.

Some emotions fuel creativity, making it easy to pour thoughts onto a page. Others, like deep sadness, can make expression feel impossible. There are days when speaking my truth out loud feels unbearable, as if saying the words would make them take up permanent residence in my reality. On those days, I type. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Giving myself permission to feel without having to voice it just yet.

Sadness has a way of moving through us differently each time it visits. Sometimes it arrives quietly, sitting in the background, waiting to be acknowledged. Other times, it grows unexpectedly, overtaking everything like a wave we never saw coming. It lingers for hours, days, even months, shifting shape in ways we can’t always predict.

Today, sadness feels familiar. Predictable. I can sense its movements before they happen, like knowing someone so well that you can anticipate their next words before they speak. And because it feels familiar, I can sit with it. I can observe it rather than fearing what it might do next.

Personal History & Creative Conditioning

Just as my writing habits were shaped by the tools I grew up with, my emotional relationship with creativity was shaped by my past. There are patterns in the way I process emotions—things I’ve learned from childhood, from past experiences, from cultural expectations.

Creativity, for me, was always tied to writing. To putting thoughts into words. But what about emotions that don’t fit neatly into language? What about sadness, grief, confusion—the things that refuse to be contained in structured sentences?

When I work with clients, I often invite them to engage with their emotions beyond words. To create a visual, to explore through movement, to express what they feel without trying to explain it. Because sometimes, language fails us. And that’s okay.

A Relationship with Sadness

If I were to give sadness a form today, I would see it as an old friend. The kind who knows me well enough not to need an invitation. The kind who moves through my space with a quiet understanding that I may not want it here, but that I will accept it nonetheless.

Sadness is fluid, shifting in and out of focus. It is formless yet deeply present. It can be jarring in its intensity, or it can sit quietly in a room, waiting. Some days, it grows suddenly and unexpectedly, and other days, it simply lingers in the background.

But today, I am not afraid of it. Today, I do not need to fight it. Instead, I listen.

Sadness, at its core, is honest. It does not sugarcoat. It does not manipulate. It simply asks: What would you say is most true right now?

And I know that whatever answer comes up is not some grand, objective truth. It is an emotional truth—a momentary, fleeting reality, like a bubble floating through the air. It might be big, it might be small, it might be messy. But eventually, it will pop. It will pass.

And I will have expressed what needed to be said.

Conclusion: Making Room for Expression

Expression is not just about writing. It is about how we allow ourselves to process and create. It is about honoring the ways our history, emotions, and conditioning shape our ability to communicate.

Some days, the words come easily. Other days, they feel stuck. Some days, we can speak our truth out loud, and other days, we can only type in slow, measured sentences.

And some days, we need to step outside of language entirely—to create, to move, to feel without explaining.

Whatever the method, whatever the emotion, expression is always there. Waiting. Ready to take whatever form we need it to.

Even on the days when sadness lingers. Even on the days when words feel just out of reach.

Because eventually, every bubble pops. And when it does, there is always space for something new.