For over two decades, I wrote copy that moved humans to take action. Buy this. Go there. Do that. Taglines, brand platforms, social captions, campaign manifestos. I’ve helped shape the voices of Wall Street brands and scrappy startups alike, weaving strategy and psychology into every headline.

But somewhere along the way, I started to lose touch with my own voice.

Don’t get me wrong—there’s real artistry in advertising. You learn how to say the most with the least. How to write on deadline, on brief, and on brand. It’s a masterclass in precision that is truly fulfilling for writers who love not to just move people but to persuade. It’s a medium of big ideas told in few words. But over the years, I realized I was writing successfully, but not necessarily freely.

And the truth is, when I was a child I didn’t dream of writing professionally because I wanted to sell a product or entice some spur-of-the-moment splurge. I wanted to become a writer because I love stories. I love language. I love the quiet alchemy that happens within when words on a page begin to carry emotion, insight, and truth.

So, I made a shift. Or perhaps, I made a return.

I stepped away from the agency world and began to reintroduce myself to the kind of writing that lit me up in the first place. The sort of writing that found its way on to countless diary pages in my teenage bedroom. Passionate, flowing, meaningful writing that just doesn’t say something, it means something. The sort of work that gets back to the roots of the craft: words as emotion on paper.

Today, I work as a creative freelance ghostwriter. I help thought leaders, artists, entrepreneurs, and everyday visionaries tell their stories. Memoirs, manifestos, personal essays and speeches, brand origin stories, video game storylines—pieces that dig deep, that resonate. (In case you’re wondering, I still write ad campaigns, too.)

Ghostwriting is a funny thing. You give your craft in service of someone else’s voice. But strangely, it feels more authentic than anything I’ve written in years. Because I’m not just polishing slogans anymore. I’m also listening. Deeply. I’m pulling truths out of tangled thoughts and shaping them into narratives that sound just like the person they came from. There’s real intimacy in that process. And real joy.

It’s not always glamorous. It’s not as neatly packaged as a pretty brand deck, chockfull of logos and unbridled aspiration. But it’s meaningful. It feels. And that’s the metric I care about now.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt that same nudge—a pull toward work that feels more aligned, more soulful—I encourage you to trust it. The road back to yourself is never a straight line. But every detour teaches you something. Every lane explored somehow leads in the right direction. My path is still evolving, but over the past twenty-some years it’s shown me the way to write about almost everything for almost anyone.

Now, I get to use that skill to help people tell their own truths—and in doing so, I’ve finally found my own again.