I was lying in bed last Thursday, brain fog thick as mud, when I caught myself thinking, "I'm such a terrible writer. I haven't written anything meaningful in weeks." Sounds familiar? Maybe you've been there too - wanting to write, having stories or ideas bubbling up, but feeling like you need hours of uninterrupted time and perfect mental clarity to make it "count."

What I would have liked to hear during my worst burnout is something like:

What Nobody Tells You About Writing With Chronic Illness

Most writing advice assumes you have endless energy and a brain that cooperates on command. "Just sit down and write!" they say. "Make it a daily habit!" But what if your daily reality includes brain fog, fatigue, pain flares, or days when tying together a coherent sentence feels impossible?

I used to think I was failing at writing because I couldn't maintain those picture-perfect morning routines or write for hours like other writers seemed to do. I'd beat myself up for the weeks when I didn't touch my laptop, convinced that "real writers" push through everything.

Actually, wait… let me think about this differently. What if the problem is not that we're not disciplined enough? What if the problem is that we are trying to force our writing practice into a mold that wasn't designed for bodies and minds that need gentleness?

The Micro-Writing Breakthrough

During one particularly rough patch with my chronic illness, I was feeling guilty about my abandoned writing projects when I remembered something. I'd been texting my friend these long, thoughtful messages about what I was going through. They were honest, vulnerable, beautifully written - and I'd composed them in tiny bursts between naps and doctor's appointments.

That's when it hit me. I was writing. Just not in the way I thought "counted."

And what have I discovered about micro-writing sessions? They're not about producing perfect work. They're about maintaining that precious connection between your heart and your words, even when (especially when) everything else feels chaotic.

How Micro-Writing Actually Works (The Gentle Version)

Forget everything you've heard about writing habits. Here's what micro-writing looks like in real life:

When you have 10 minutes and moderate brain fog: Open a document and write about what you're feeling right now. Don't worry about it being good. Just let your thoughts flow onto the page. We call this "brain dumping," and it's incredibly healing.

When you have 10 minutes and you're in pain: Try voice-to-text or even just writing on your phone. Sometimes the physical act of typing is too much, but your voice can still carry your words. Honor what your body needs.

When you have 10 minutes and you're overwhelmed: Write a list. Seriously. Lists of what you notice, what you're grateful for, what you're worried about, what you want to remember. Lists are writing too, and they can be surprisingly powerful.

When you have 10 minutes and feel creative: This is when you might dive into that story, that poem, that blog post. But here's the key, you're not trying to finish it. You're just adding one small piece to the puzzle.

What Ten Minutes Can Actually Accomplish

I used to think ten minutes was too short to matter. But I've learned something from my own micro-writing practice:

• Ten minutes is enough to capture a passing thought that might become something beautiful later

• Ten minutes is enough to work through a difficult emotion on the page

• Ten minutes is enough to maintain your writing voice, even during the hardest seasons

• Ten minutes is enough to remind yourself that you are, in fact, a writer

And if I’m being real right now, some of my favorite pieces started as ten-minute brain dumps during flare-ups. The rawness, the honesty that comes when you're not trying to be perfect - that's often where the magic lives.

Making Micro-Writing Work for Your Real Life

Here's how this might look in your actual day:

Set up your writing space before you need it. Keep a notebook by your bed, a voice recorder app on your phone, or a simple document open on your computer. When you have a few minutes and some mental space, you won't waste precious energy setting up.

Give yourself permission to write terribly. The goal is not to produce publishable work every time. The goal is to keep the writing part of your brain alive and connected to your heart. Some days, that looks like elegant prose. Other days, it looks like "I feel like garbage but I'm still here."

Track your micro-sessions gently. I keep a simple note in my phone where I note what I wrote and how I felt afterward. Not to judge myself, but to notice patterns. I've learned that even on my worst days, ten minutes of writing usually leaves me feeling a little more like myself.

Build in micro-session modifications. On high-pain days, I write shorter sentences. During brain fog, I stick to stream-of-consciousness. When I'm overwhelmed, I write lists or single words that capture what I'm experiencing. There's no wrong way to do this.

What Better Actually Looks Like

We need to be honest about expectations. Micro-writing isn't going to turn you into a productivity machine or magically cure your chronic illness. What it will do is much more subtle, and in many ways, more important.

The difference isn't that I write for hours every day now. The difference is that I still feel connected to my writing identity, even during the hardest times. I still have a place to put my thoughts, my stories, my pain, and my hope.

Progress might look like remembering you have words inside you worth sharing. It might look like feeling slightly less alone after writing about your experience. It might look like discovering that your "bad" writing days actually produce some of your most honest work.

The Permission You Might Be Looking For

If you're reading this and thinking, "But what if I'm just making excuses? What if I should be pushing myself harder?" Let me stop you right there.

Living with chronic illness, mental health challenges, or overwhelming life circumstances requires a different kind of strength. The strength to be gentle with yourself. The strength to adapt instead of forcing yourself. The strength to believe that your words matter, even when they come in small, imperfect doses.

You don't need to write like someone whose body and brain cooperate perfectly. You need to write like you - with all your limitations, all your wisdom, all your beautiful, complicated humanity.

Your Next Ten Minutes

Healing takes time, and so does developing a writing practice that actually works for your life. You don't need to transform everything tomorrow. You just need to be willing to start where you are, with what you have.

The next time you have ten minutes and feel that familiar tug toward words, try the following. Open something to write in and ask yourself, "What do I need to say right now?" Then say it, without worrying about whether it's good enough.

Your voice matters. Your experience matters. Your ten-minute writing sessions matter. Be patient with your process. You are learning to write in a way that honors both your creativity and your need for gentleness.

In the meantime, let’s stay connected! Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Threads for more tips, encouragement, and updates. Together, we’ll keep finding new ways to thrive in our creative paths. 💜