Are You Both Inspired & Terrified To Share Your Story Publicly- So You Might Help Others Heal?

In communities like Substack, a lot of us are writers, and a lot of us are daring to share very vulnerable aspects of our personal stories. This process can be both personally therapeutic and also part of our calling- to heal others with our story.

Usually, we write our stories to work it out, to figure out what happened, to make it real by writing down the bones. We write to keep from losing our minds when others are gaslighting and invalidating what we know happened. We write to process our feelings, to vent, to release pent up sadness, anger, disappointment, grief, and hurt. We write to validate ourselves, even if none of the people who hurt us are willing to confess and say, “Yes, it’s true. I did that.” We write to heal ourselves. We write to set the record straight. We write for justice that might not come any other way. We write to forgive those who deserve to be forgiven. We write to forgive ourselves.

Then at some point, now that it’s down on the page, out of our bodies, separate from our tissues, we look at what we’ve written as this piece of skanky shit or this piece of glorious art- and we can gain some objective distance from it. Then we can decide what to do with what we’ve written.

Maybe we burn it and ceremonially watch it float to the stars as ashes flickering into the moon-bright sky. Maybe we invite friends to help us bury it and give it the funeral it deserves, planting flowers on its grave. Maybe we squirrel it away in a dark corner of our computer or hide it in a box labelled “Burn this when I die,” clear in our hearts that nobody else needs to read what we’ve written.

But sometimes, a seed of something like a spiritual calling begins to grow in the compost of our writing process. Maybe we reread the “hell and back” story we wrote and muse, “Gosh, I wish someone else had shared their story like this when I was back in hell.” Then the seed starts to sprout into an idea of how we might share our story publicly, in a way that not only makes our writing effort seem worth the emotional labor and effort, but also gives us a sense of mission and purpose. We start feeling the leaves grow from that seed and realize that maybe we didn’t survive what we survived for nought. Maybe there was a reason- and that reason is related to helping others who are still in hell.

Our story starts to grow into an idea that we could heal others with our story- and maybe something beautiful could come of all that effort, all that composted pain, all that art we made from what happened. Maybe we’ll try to publish a memoir from the fits and spurts of writing we’ve done. Maybe we’ll write a play we perform as a one-person show. Maybe we’ll tell our story at a poetry slam. Maybe we’ll write music from our story. Maybe we’ll put our story into a series of art and have a gallery show. Maybe we’ll start a Substack or a podcast about our story. Maybe we’ll make a documentary about our story.

And maybe our story will help someone else, inspire someone else, make meaning out of the meaningless and be the lifeline that pulls someone else out of hell. Maybe healing others with our story will transform the story into medicine- not just for ourselves, but for others.

Regardless of where you are in your storytelling and story-sharing journey, my heart goes out to you. I know it’s hard and scary to make writing part of your recovery process. But if you’re venturing out and taking a risk, if you’re entering “the arena” and putting yourself at risk of having eggs thrown at you, if you’re taking a chance and willing to fall flat on your face, if you’re daring greatly, as Brene Brown says, hats off to you, fellow traveler.