Roaming Towards Myself

When I was five, what did I want to be when I grew up?
A writer.
Always a writer.
I can trace it back clearly now. Sister Beryl, my favourite English teacher, saw something in me early. She encouraged my love of words in a way that stuck.
As a kid, I didn’t just write — I looked for reasons to write. I made cards for family birthdays and filled them with poems instead of just signing my name. At around nine years old, I even sent some of my poetry to Hallmark, confidently suggesting they might like to use it in their cards too. The audacity still makes me smile.
Writing wasn’t the only outlet. I was part of the school debating team, and I’ve always loved public speaking. Different format, same thread — words. Finding them, shaping them, using them.
Somewhere along the way, life got busy, as it does. But that part of me never really left.
Now, as I look ahead to setting up a new life in France, retired, slower, more intentional, I feel like I’m coming back to where I started. A life where reading and writing aren’t squeezed in, but sit at the centre of my days.
I have a list of books I’ve wanted to write for years.
Maybe no one will ever read them. Maybe they will.
But that’s not really the point.
Because even if I’m the only one who ever turns those pages, I’ll still be able to say it:
I became what I always wanted to be.
A writer.

Anybody else dreamed of becoming a writer?