The Rain Instead of the River

I used to not struggle with writer’s block.

Not the typical kind, anyway—

the kind where you stare at the paper

and nothing shows up.

For me, the words used to flow.

A line would come,

then the next,

and the next would just form—

easy, liquid, like water flowing.

Especially when it came to poetry.

But now, post-stroke,

I find myself staring,

not at emptiness,

but at too much.

So much all at once.

Hundreds of words and ideas

scroll through my mind,

rapid and untethered.

I feel so deeply about all of them,

but I can’t grasp just one

to pour onto the page.

Often the word I need—

or the topic I was so sure of moments ago—

vanishes.

Floats out of my grasp.

And I have to search

and search

to find it again.

There’s so much power in how I’m learning

to see this shift—

not as a loss,

but as a re-mapping.

The old flow was like a river,

constant and direct.

Now it’s more like rain—

coming from all directions at once,

harder to collect

but no less full of potential.

I know my brain is trying—

building new neural pathways,

finding fresh routes to old roads.

I know it’s working so hard

to find its new way

of communicating.

So I’m practicing patience.

And grace.

Because even if I stumble with my words,

they’re still mine.

And I’m still here.

Still writing.

Still grasping.

Still pouring.

The flow just looks a little different.