I’ve had this gnawing feeling in my stomach for a while—one that, like most women, I’ve ignored until it demanded attention.

I turned to Google, a modern-day Oracle, Farmer’s Almanac, telehealth provider, and Magic 8 Ball, to find a cure for my woes.

“Google, what does it mean to have a gnawing pain?” I ask.

In 0.66 seconds, Google offers 45,600,000 results to my query, and it doesn’t sugarcoat the responses.

“Stomach ulcer.”

“Gastritis.”

“Dyspepsia.”

And, of course, “Cancer.” Somehow, it always ends up being cancer. Cancer pops up so often in my search results that I wonder if it has a secret deal with Google to boost its rankings. I contemplate cancer for a while longer as I investigate the pang that haunts me.

“Pang. Hmm. That’s a better word for how I feel,” I think. I have a pang. It is not painful, but I do ache.

And of course, I can’t resist the urge.

“Google, what is a pang?” I type.

“A sudden feeling of mental or emotional distress or longing: a pang of remorse; a pang of desire. See more,” Google replies.

But I don’t have to see more. The answer resonates. My problem is emotional, not physical. What I feel is emptiness—something I once had that made me feel whole.

For nearly a decade, my life felt noteworthy. I had given up career, country, family, and friends to follow my husband around the world to further his calling. I lived and flourished in three countries on two continents, visited amazing sights, met terrific people, and expanded my horizons in ways only other expats could understand. I shared those experiences in a blog that Google no longer deems worthy enough to rank in search results.

While I don’t miss the expat lifestyle, I do miss writing for pleasure. I enjoyed sharing insights and telling stories that resonated with a few readers along the way. Part therapy, part vanity, keeping a blog forced me to look for tales worth sharing, and it helped me reflect and find the moral in my own story.

Locked away in my office, getting paid to compose copy for others leaves little time to write for myself. Spending more than two years isolated because of the pandemic has only made me more pensive. I need to get the feelings out to cure what haunts me.

An outlet is what I long for—the answer a search engine couldn’t provide. As smart as its algorithm is, Google cannot crawl my soul.

So here I am on a Saturday morning: reflecting, writing, sharing. It feels good.

Is there something you are compelled to do because it feeds your soul? Care to share? If you made it to the last line of these ramblings, thank you. If you remember my old blog, let me know. I want to hear from you.