Sentence I Kept Avoiding

The sentence had been sitting there for three weeks.

Not unfinished—worse.

Almost finished.

A blinking cursor waited at the end of a line that felt too honest to touch. Every time I opened the document, my eyes slid past it like it was dangerous. I adjusted margins. I reread earlier paragraphs. I told myself I was “warming up.”

But the truth was simple.

I was afraid of finishing that sentence.

Writers don’t talk enough about this part—the fear that arrives not at the beginning, but near the end. The fear that whispers, If you finish this, it becomes real. Real enough to be judged. Real enough to be ignored. Real enough to fail.

I had started the piece with confidence. It flowed the way writing sometimes does, like it’s been waiting for you longer than you’ve been waiting for it. Paragraphs stacked neatly. Metaphors behaved themselves. I felt like a writer again, not an imposter borrowing the title.

Then I reached the sentence.

It was supposed to explain why I kept writing after years of silence. Why I returned after rejection emails and empty comment sections. Why I still believed words mattered in a world that seemed to scroll past them.

The sentence read:

“I write because—”

And that was it.

Every reason I tried to add sounded foolish.

Too dramatic. Too small. Too needy.

Because I want to be heard.

Because I don’t know who I am without it.

Because silence scares me more than failure.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

I closed the document and told myself I’d come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow became next week.

During that time, I read other writers. Brilliant ones. Fearless ones. Writers who seemed to know exactly what they wanted to say and said it with confidence. Their sentences ended boldly. Mine hid.

I began to wonder if the problem wasn’t the sentence—but me.

Maybe I didn’t deserve to finish it yet. Maybe I hadn’t earned the right to explain myself. Maybe real writers didn’t hesitate like this.

One night, exhausted from avoiding my own work, I opened an old notebook instead. The kind with uneven handwriting and coffee stains. Drafts I never meant anyone to see.

On the first page was a line I had written years ago:

“Write the thing you’re trying hardest not to write.”

I laughed out loud. Not because it was funny—but because it was accurate.

I realized then that the sentence wasn’t unfinished because I lacked skill.

It was unfinished because it told the truth.

I went back to the document.

The cursor blinked patiently, as if it had been waiting for me to stop pretending.

I took a breath and typed:

“I write because it’s the only place I’m honest before I’m brave.”

I didn’t polish it.

I didn’t overthink it.

I didn’t ask if it sounded smart.

I finished the paragraph. Then the piece. Then I sat there, staring at the screen, heart racing like I’d just confessed something aloud in a quiet room.

Publishing it felt terrifying.

Not publishing it felt worse.

So I shared it.

Not with expectations. Not with dreams of viral numbers or praise. Just with the quiet hope that someone, somewhere, might recognize themselves in that unfinished feeling.

The response wasn’t explosive.

But it was human.

One reader said, “I thought I was the only one afraid of my own words.”

Another wrote, “That sentence felt like mine.”

A third simply said, “Thank you for finishing it.”

That’s when I understood something most writing advice never mentions.

We don’t avoid finishing sentences because we don’t know how.

We avoid them because finished sentences reveal us.

They show where we stand.

What we believe.

What we’re willing to admit.

And every time a writer finishes the sentence they’ve been avoiding, they don’t just complete a piece of writing.

They complete a small act of courage.

Now, whenever I get stuck, I look for the sentence that scares me. The one I keep rereading but never touching. The one that makes my chest tighten just a little.

That’s the sentence that matters.

That’s the sentence the story is waiting for.

And that’s the sentence I write first.