The Bridge Between Rules & Rhythm
I grew up in the era where you learned typing the same way you learned your ABCs. Home row was not a suggestion. It was gospel. You kept your wrists up, you kept your eyes forward, and you prayed your teacher would not slide behind you and tap your knuckles for peeking at the keys. I remember the pride in watching my words per minute climb like it meant something about my future. At sixteen, beating out full grown adults in typing tests felt like a rite of passage. I was fast and I was exact. I thought this would matter forever.
Writing back then had rules. You could not start a sentence with and, but, or because unless you wanted to meet a red pen that had zero mercy. You had to back up your claims. You had to cite your sources. You had to walk yourself down to a library, find the book you needed, then pray the person who had it last remembered to return it. Writing took effort. It took pilgrimage. It took reverence.
Those rules shaped me. They taught me discipline and diligence. They taught me how to respect information. They taught me that someone wrote a thing with intention, so you owed it to them to acknowledge where you found it. Writing was not just expression. It was responsibility.
Then life grew up and so did the world.
Somewhere between home row and hashtags, writing cracked open. People started writing with their hearts on the keyboard. Conversations became paragraphs. Paragraphs became stories. Stories became proof that voice matters more than perfect MLA formatting. I started seeing sentences begin with words that would have made my ninth grade English teacher fall straight out of her chair. I kept waiting for the red pen to come down from the sky.
No one seemed bothered. The rules relaxed. The tone shifted. Writing became more human and more immediate. I will be honest. My eye still twitches when I see certain things, but my spirit has learned to breathe.
This year I realized something. I live in the space between home row and modern storytelling. I am the generation that remembers both worlds. I can still type like a secretary from 1988, yet I can also sit in a coffee shop and write straight from the chest. I can appreciate a well-placed citation and a well-placed feeling. I am old enough to remember the structure and young enough to embrace the shift.
This place feels like being a bridge.
It is the same space I find myself in professionally and personally. I am not the youngest voice in the room anymore. I am not the only one holding representation on my shoulders anymore. I am no longer the gatherer who hoards crumbs of knowledge just to prove I belong. I am the one handing out the bread now. I am the one shaping culture and opening doors instead of trying to squeeze through them.
Writing revealed that to me before I even realized it out loud. The way I write mirrors the season I am in. Half legacy. Half evolution. Fully aligned.
There is power in honoring what shaped you without letting it trap you. There is power in letting your writing grow with your life. There is power in knowing you can carry tradition while welcoming transformation.
I am a bridge. A generation raised on reference pages and now thriving in story. A woman who can honor the craft without letting perfection silence her voice. A leader who valued precision first and now values presence just as much.
So the next time I cringe at someone starting a sentence with and, I will take a breath. I will remind myself that language is alive. I will remember that growth does not erase what came before it. It expands it. It stretches the story.
This is my AHA… I am not losing anything. I am evolving.
I wonder if I can still hit 120 words per minute if I need to.
I can also slow down and say something real.
Turns out both matter now.