quick, tell the others

normalizing and metabolizing taboo and the tough stuff through writing, journaling and story sharing: a practice and a prompt

I think about the kind of writing that can connect us and free us. It has often been the intimacy of a “me too” line in a memoir that has allowed me to feel seen and less alone in the world.

My first writing was in a tiny pink diary with a heart shaped lock. It was there I tried to make sense of a changing tween-aged body and big fourth grade thoughts on my parent’s divorce. “Why didn’t anyone write me a note to get out of my spelling test today? This is definitely the worst day of my entire life”.

Photo by Jess Bailey on Unsplash

In a long ago professional iteration of my writing life, I wrote about trends, back when, for The Chicago Tribune and Chicago Magazine. I would hedge my bets and cultural instincts on what was new and next in my column.

It can be far scarier and downright naked to hit send when we write about the hard stuff. That is why so much of the inner dialogue of a journaling journey, or morning pages practice, never sees the light of day. There is also so much exquisitely written and researched out there, I can feel intimidated by even imagining myself being a voice in your curated stack.

So as I write, I first write for me. Curious. Confounded. Then, I edit. Expand. I imagine you reading. We are in a giant circle. Maybe we have candles lit. It’s cozy. Perhaps there is a hot cup of tea. You’re over for a chat. In the safety of our communion and community - we begin to exchange stories.

I go first.

Long ago comforting words would arrive just on time in my mailbox, by way of a monthly Seventeen magazine subscription or the magic knowing of a Judy Blume character. I kept notes for nine months in a diary over the course of my first pregnancy. It was all I wanted my daughter to know was happening inside. I did not want fear to translate. Transfer. It needed a safe place to house it. I couldn’t admit to anyone, my holy terror on becoming a mother, without my own.

Later it was the invitation to share in a trusted writing group with my beloved teacher

Tracy Elizabeth Levy

. A woman there name Bev was so fascinated with details of my dead Mom Ellen, it gave me the kind of permission many of us need to feel before we keep going. Feeling like our stories actually matter. Spoiler alert. They do!

I became part of The Hatch, a sharing community that

Suleika Jaouad

hosted before The Isolation Journals. We took tours into the lives and offices of beloved writers. I remember learning about the commonplace books that memorist Dani Shapiro shared with us. Bits of dialogue overheard. A whisper or deeply held confession. Suleika’s journaling shares have long inspired me. So did her book, Between Two Kingdoms: A memoir of a Life interrupted. It chronicles her journey from being diagnosed with leukemia and cross country exploration with her readers. Her second, The Book of Alchemy which is out tomorrow, and is her guide to the very art of journaling. I heard her speak about it last week at Symphony Space with

Debbie Millman

and count the minutes till it arrives.

Of course I use the word genre loosely (and with a soft smile) when I describe my writing style here. My genre? I have started to call it, “quick, tell the others.” Mostly, I write to make sense of the world and what can often feel too scary or even shameful to say out loud. I noodle around in a journal, in my notes or the beginning of an essay. I know it needs to move through me. It’s my way. Sometimes I recognize a something in the Zeitgeist and it feels like the ripe moment. When I finally (or desperately) brave sharing what I have been thinking about — it is mostly from a place deep inside that needs you. The others.

Here is what happened. Here is what I learned or need to know. Anyone out there relate?

I remember writing here about being lonely. It struck a chord. So many thanked me. But most only did so privately, and not on the piece. I have learned in being vulnerable about the hard stuff, that “telling the others” can normalize stigma, shame and taboo. It has for me. Motherloss, infertility, miscarriage, divorce, dating for the first time at 40…and most recently a decade of caretaking for my father and living alongside his memory loss.

I have felt extraordinarily seen in a new book that also hits shelves tomorrow and is already making headlines and the evening news called Normalize It, by clinical psychologist, Jessica Zucker, PhD. She is the award winner author of I Had a Miscarriage. I am underlining, and digging into the footnotes. It is speaking to what we know about what happens when we share our stories. Some quietly share with a trusted friend, therapist or physician. Some write. Books, novels, journals. Others shout it from the mountain and create movements.

In my work today, I have been leaning into the power of writing and how it can be a tool for processing grief. Of all kinds. According to research, including some from Harvard Health Publishing, expressive writing about emotional experiences can help us metabolize and work through grief in so many important ways. Grief of both death and non-death loss.

When we write about our grief, we:

• Give structure to overwhelming emotions by organizing them into words and narratives

• Create psychological distance from painful feelings, allowing us to process them more effectively

• Reduce stress hormones in our bodies that can build up during grief

• Convert implicit, unconscious memories into explicit, conscious ones that are easier to process

The practice of writing about our grief doesn’t necessarily make the pain disappear faster, but it can help make it more manageable. Help us feel less alone. I feel like it takes some of the power out of the gut punch. It crafts structure and a place to be with it in a new way.

Research suggests that consistent journaling about difficult experiences for even 15-20 minutes several times a week can lead to improvements in both psychological and physical health. It frees us. Allows us to become our own story witness. See it outside of ourselves.

Writing creates a safe space to acknowledge and express emotions that might otherwise remain bottled up, potentially leading to greater acceptance of loss over time.

I believe when we write by hand, the part of the brain that responds in healing also calms and soothes. The part of our brain that sorts executive function. So far my gathered scientific research says you can achieve this by hand OR computer, however my hypothesis lies in the slowing down handwriting offers. Being off of screens and keyboards helps us imprint our experience. I think this alone, is profoundly healing.

Maybe there is a small part of your story you might feel called to share with another. Perhaps younger you or even “I was today years old when I learned” you can find some compassion toward yourself in this practice.

Have you considered using writing as a way to process grief in your own life?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I offer a simple daily prompt:

Where is my grief today? How is my grief today? Where is it showing up in my life? How can I befriend it? What feelings or thoughts can I leave here on the page?

Date the page.

Always date the page.

It’s fascinating to look back on.

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AN UNMOTHERED MOTHER’S DAY

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