I’m a writer by profession. For two decades, I’ve crafted persuasive copy for online businesses, aiming to increase sales of products I believe genuinely benefit people. Simple enough in concept, yet complex enough to keep me engaged all these years. Before this career, I worked as a translator, localization expert, productization specialist, and held various other roles—but the common thread was always writing.
It wasn’t until I stumbled upon ILYS that I discovered perhaps the most important aspect of writing one could ever experience: healing yourself, and healing your life as a result.
I began using it for completely unhinged rants—a safe outlet for frustration, anger, and other hazardous emotional material. No therapist looking on. No one judging me. Not even my subconscious had permission to criticize, thanks to the unique way ILYS works.
As time passed, I noticed something unexpected happening during my ILYS sessions. Those frustrated rants grew shorter, quieter, more understanding. Suddenly, gems of wisdom began appearing amidst the drivel. These moments of clarity increased until eventually, I’d open my notes after a session and marvel at what had emerged—remarkable insights, purposeful attitudes, actual progress.
How did this happen? I never planned it, and honestly don’t know if it came from within me or some other entity pulling the strings as I pressed one single, solitary key at a time. But ultimately, the source doesn’t matter. What matters is that the process works.
ILYS not only allows free expression—it heals. You end up rewriting the story of your life without actively trying to do so. That, to me, is the core genius of this approach.
Even though I’m a professional writer, this kind of writing is so different that professional habits don’t interfere. I feel liberated from form, convention, and expectation. Nobody sees this. Not even me! After a short period of adjustment, something just snaps inside, and words flow out in great floods, leaving you feeling empty afterward.
But here’s the important distinction: it’s a GOOD kind of emptiness. The kind where something new can emerge. The kind of emptiness you might feel by a lakeside on a still summer’s evening. Something transcendent like that.
The proof of the ILYS pudding is in the writing. Don’t think about it as writing, actually—just let your fingers move. Keep them moving. And you will be surprised in a way that’s uniquely yours. Give it a try.