Thirty years ago, when my husband died in a drowning accident, I turned to what had always been a lifeline in times of struggle: writing. I filled dozens of journals with outpourings of grief, sorrow and questions, before my writing gradually shifted into poetry or memories of our life together. As my writing changed, my grief began to lessen; my perspective shifted from “why me?” to a sense of possibility, of new beginnings. Several years later, when I was told I had cancer, I turned again to the refuge I found with pen and paper. Writing, as so many of us have discovered, provides the safety to express the feelings we find so difficult to say aloud, a way to make sense of our emotions as we translate them into words.