In my last article, I shared a poem—Only Held.
It was the first poem I’d written in more than a decade.

And in sharing it, I was reminded of something I hadn’t said out loud in years: I am a creative writer.

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Long before branding frameworks, before PR strategy, before I ever thought about authority or influence, I was a girl who simply loved to write.

In second grade, I wrote a diaper commercial for a group project. We earned the top prize—probably lollipops. At the time, it felt like winning something far bigger. It was the first time I remember words I wrote doing something. Creating something. Getting a reaction.

But it was in fourth grade that writing became part of my identity. I was at my third school, the new kid with the funny accent. And I was painfully shy.

My teacher, Mrs. Lentz, was the first person who saw possibility in my words. She told me I had a gift and she encouraged me to write for the joy of writing. That year, everything I wrote—poems, book reports, short stories—earned an A. I had found something that made me feel less alone, an outlet for my thoughts and feelings. I gained a bit of confidence.

Without my parents’ knowledge, I submitted a poem to Scholastic.

It was called Life.

I don’t remember the whole thing, but I remember enough to smile at it now:

“Some people think life is something you eat,
while you sit at a table and try to be neat,”

and the powerful close…

“but life is nothing so simple, you know,
for some people stay and some people go.”

I mean, how could Scholastic say no to that?

They did, of course.

And somehow, my dad saw the rejection letter before I did. He handed it to me, explaining he had opened it by accident. I don’t remember being devastated. I just remember the moment. The awareness that I had put something into the world—and the world had responded.

At 11, I was published for the first time. An essay I wrote was accepted into a national anthology. I won’t share what it was about—I’ve since completely changed my position on the topic—but at the time, it felt like confirmation that I was good with words.

I was a writer. A creative writer, an opinion writer, an essay writer! I filled notebooks with my writing.

In high school, I took my first creative writing course. My teacher, Ms. Getzlaf, encouraged me to do an independent study in poetry the following semester. I did. I wrote a few decent poems. A story or two. Nothing I would share publicly now, but enough to keep the desire burning.

In college, I enrolled in another creative writing course.

The instructor was a young man, possibly 30, who interpreted every female student’s poem as sexual.

Every one.

After arguing with him about his interpretation of my work, I received a B instead of the A I expected.

It didn’t just frustrate me. It made me reconsider my studies, my plans for the future.

Up until then, I had a clear vision: I would get my degree in education, teach high school literature and creative writing, and spend my summers writing poetry and the “great American novel.”

I could see it.

But somewhere in that moment—and in the conversations that followed—my path changed.

My counselor and my journalism teacher, both of whom knew I was taking every writing course I could, encouraged me to pursue writing as a career. Not in a classroom, but in the world.

So I chose a different path.

I loaded up on marketing and advertising courses, with a side of psychology.

I fell in love with public relations. It made sense because what I had always wanted to do was tell stories. I just hadn’t realized they didn’t have to be imagined stories. They could belong to real people. They could shape how the world saw an idea, a business, a movement.

And that became my work.

But here’s the part I don’t talk about often:

I never stopped writing creatively.

I kept writing poems. I started, but didn’t finish, stories.

Most ended up in notebooks, boxes, or files—likely still tucked away in an attic or lost somewhere between moves.

The creative writer in me didn’t disappear. She just went quiet.

Until last week. It was Earth Day. I was flying from Cleveland, Ohio to Honolulu, Hawaii to stay with my daughter, son-in-law and nearly two-year-old granddaughter.

I worry about the world she will inherit. I worry that not enough people care that we’re destroying our planet to stop it. I wrote a poem about my relationship with nature, and then I put it away for a few days.

I pulled it back out, made a few edits and made a decision to publish it here. It felt impulsive, something my friends and family will tell you I definitely am not. But I felt like the poem wanted to be shared.

To everyone who read Only Held and commented or reached out—thank you. Your words did more than affirm the poem.

They reconnected me to the nine-year-old girl who was told she should write.

The one who didn’t question where it fit.
The one who didn’t need it to serve a purpose.
The one who just wrote because she could, no, because she had to.

I don’t know how my creative writing fits into Brand & Belief.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s something separate.
Maybe it becomes a second Substack.
Maybe it weaves its way in when it needs to.

I’m not trying to position it.

I’m just returning to it.

Because in sharing one poem, I didn’t discover something new—I remembered who I’ve always been. A writer. A creative writer.

And I know this much:

I will be writing more.

—Lorraine

P.S. If you haven’t read Only Held, you can find it here. And if you feel yourself called to write something new or different, take the leap. There's a whole community of us waiting to cheer you on.

This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.