There is definitely a correspondence or synchronicity here.

“Until I was in the forties—I could settle the date by seeing when I wrote
To the Lighthouse, but am too casual here to bother to do it—the presence
of my mother obsessed me.  I could hear her voice, see her, imagine what
she would do or say as I went about my day’s doings.  She was one of the
invisible presences who after all play so important a part in every
life. . . . 
Then one day walking round Tavistock Square I made up, as I
sometimes make up my books, To the Lighthouse, in a great, apparently
involuntary, rush.  One thing burst into another. . . .  I wrote the book
very quickly; and when it was written, I ceased to be obsessed by my
mother.  I no longer hear her voice; I do not see her.
I suppose that I did for myself what psycho-analysts do for their
patients.  I expressed some very long felt and deeply felt emotion.  And
in expressing it I explained it and then laid it to rest.  But what is
the meaning of ‘explained’ it?” (from Moments of Being, “Sketch,” 80-81;
Woolf was 45 when she began writing To the Lighthouse in 1925)