The Question Mark in the Room
and Why I Still Write
A while ago, I shared a note on Substack that reached more people than anything I’ve ever written here. It was short. It was tender. It was true.
You can read my words below:
I went back to finish my English degree at 42. After grief. After caregiving. In the thick of loss. I started sharing my writing at 44. Terrified. Honest. This is who I am. This is what I see. This is what I carry. I started a Substack. I have one paid subscriber. It’s my therapist. And her support means everything. I'm writing my first book. Voice trembling, I’ve read my poems to strangers. Presented research in rooms not built for people like me. I’m in seminary. And most days, I feel less like Paul with his letters— and more like the woman at the well, writing an exegesis with a dry throat and a broken heart. Still wondering if my witness matters. Still showing up anyway. Not with perfection. Not for performance. Just with a pen— and a willingness to stay near the ache. To speak to the one deemed unworthy: Something good, something Holy, is still at work. Even here. Even now. Even through us. For anyone who’s ever felt like a question mark in a world full of exclamation points— you are not alone.
What surprised me most wasn’t the reach—it was the replies.
The writers and creatives who whispered back: me too.
People rebuilding their lives quietly.
People wondering if their story matters.
People writing in the dark.
So I want to linger with that ache for a moment. Not to fix it, but to honor it.
To make space for the sacred work of those of us still becoming.
The Library Floor
I remember sitting on the floor of my university library, fall 2022, holding a copy of Salvation: Black People and Love by bell hooks in one hand and my grief in the other.
I had just returned to college after a 14-year break. I had no idea why God had called me back to academia, especially during such a painful time in my life.
I was older than most of my classmates. I was in mourning. I was exhausted from caregiving.
For years, I had created beauty for others as a photographer—helping people feel seen, known, and celebrated.
But to experience that for myself?
To come home to beauty within, not just around me?
That would require something deeper.
I sat on that floor, listening for a word that might tell me I could still belong.
That’s where writing began again for me. Not on a blank page, but in the rubble.
A journey back to my own soul, my story, my faith.
I didn’t have a plan. I only had painful questions.
And a quiet, persistent hope that language could hold what life had broken open.
The Mic in My Hand
The first time I read my poetry aloud to the rest of my creative writing class peers, my voice trembled so hard I could barely finish the piece.
All I could see, written behind my eyelids in bold, official letters:
Hispanic vowel distortion.
I spoke the words anyway.
Not because I felt ready.
Because I wanted to believe that the truth I carried might make someone else feel less alone.
That’s still why I write. Not because I have answers.
I write because I know what it feels like to sit in the audience, aching to hear someone name the unspoken thing.
I write for the ones in the back row. I write for the ones that are not even in the building.
The ones who don’t see themselves in the headline stories.
The ones who wonder if they’re too much—or not enough.
This Is the Work
After graduating with my English degree, I found myself at a crossroads with where to continue my graduate studies. The Lord answered my prayers one late afternoon at the Michael Kuperman Memorial Poetry Library. The next time I sat in that same space, I had my answer.
I’m now at Northern Seminary, pursuing a Master of Arts in Theology with an Emphasis in Women and Ministry; writing papers that feel more like laments and prayers.
Most days, I feel less like Paul with his polished letters and more like the woman at the well—
scribbling notes, interrupting the lecture with curious, childlike questions,
with a dry throat and a broken heart.
Yet, I’m here.
Still writing.
Still showing up.
Still offering what I can.
Because I believe in slow miracles.
In Holy questions.
In the kind of witness that doesn’t shout—but stays.
If you’re here, I want to say thank you. Truly.
Your presence matters more than you know.
If you’ve recently joined me, here are a few ways to stay connected:
Read My Latest Work
Poem: “Thorns and Honey” — featured in The Way Back to Ourselves literary journal. A meditation about life in-between gardens.
Essay: “Chasms and Children” — published in
Resurgam: From Dark Graves to Garden Light. A reflection on family, trauma, and holding space for healing.
Listen to the Podcast
Meet At The Well —
A podcast at the intersection of faith, story, and hope in hard places. Where we break barriers, not each other.
Support This Work
If any of this resonates—if you’ve ever felt like a question mark in a world full of exclamation points—I’d be honored to walk with you through words.
There are two simple ways to support what I’m building:
1. Become a paid subscriber.
Right now, my one and only paying subscriber is my therapist (until last night, when my best friend Joanna joined—bringing the total to two!).
Your support helps sustain this work: the writing, the podcast, and my journey through seminary.
2. Buy me a coffee (or help cover a textbook).
If you'd rather make a one-time contribution or both, you can do that here.
No pressure—just a heartfelt invitation.
Because even if this only reaches one soul—yours or mine—it’s worth it.
Until next time,
Come thirsty,
Mariana
This is such a beautiful piece. I just stumbled upon your Substack and am so glad I did! Instant subscribe 🤍
This truly inspires me and is my ray of light! This is exactly what I needed! Heartfelt thanks 😊