. . .
When I signed my book deal last month for Lost on Purpose: A Memoir, the world didn’t suddenly feel different, but I did. Something in me shifted, as if the version of myself who wrote in secret had to make room for the woman who would one day stand beside her words in public.
For years, writing was something private and sacred to me. A quiet conversation between myself and the page where I went to make sense of myself. There was no audience or pressure. Just my inner world. Those private pages became my first form of therapy. Each fragment of thought was a rehearsal for honesty before I had the courage to say it out loud. But now, that inner world, once safely tucked inside my laptop, will one day become public property. My most intimate reflections will be accessible to anyone with the desire to read them.
It’s thrilling. It’s terrifying. And it’s real.
As I move deeper into my counseling program, I’ve been thinking about how the worlds of therapy and writing are strangely opposite. In counseling, I’m trained to hold space for others, to listen more than I speak. But as a writer, I do the opposite. I hand over my own story and say, “Here. Maybe this will help you feel less alone.”
Both roles ask for presence. Both require truth. But one asks for privacy, and the other demands exposure.
Sometimes I worry about what it will mean to be this visible. To know that strangers will one day read about the most vulnerable and uncertain chapters of my life. I think about family members who might see themselves in my words, or strangers who might project their own stories onto mine. I worry that once something is public, I can’t protect its meaning anymore, or myself.
But then I remember: being real is how we heal.
It’s what I’ll ask of my prospective clients as a counselor, to bring their whole selves into the room, even the parts they think are unlovable. So how could I ask others to do what I’m unwilling to do myself? Maybe this is part of the work too: learning to be seen without armor.
When my Huffington Post article came out — a piece where I wrote openly about my unexpected love for a woman and what it taught me about identity — I felt that familiar mix of fear and relief. But then the messages started coming in: “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t,” or “You made me believe in love again.” It reminded me that visibility can be an act of service. That telling the truth, even shakily, can open a door for someone else.
Maybe this is the balance I’m still learning — how to hold my own story with the same tenderness I offer others. To remember that disclosure doesn’t have to mean exposure; it can mean communion.
So yes, part of me still wants to hide. To stay in the quiet comfort of anonymity. But another part knows that this is where the healing lives.
This next chapter of my life isn’t just about releasing a book. It’s about releasing control, and trusting that what was once mine alone might now belong to others in ways I can’t predict.
Maybe that’s what all stories do in the end: they stop being ours and start being mirrors for whoever needs them most. And maybe that’s the art of being seen — not for attention or acclaim, but for connection. For truth. For the reminder that we’re all just trying to find our way home.
. . .
Photo by Ty Sugg on Unsplash
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