Healing Through Storytelling: How Writing Became My Softest Place To Land

Why I Write

I used to think that healing meant moving on and forgetting. I believed I had to get so far away from the memories that they no longer seeped into my nightmares, interrupted my workday, or curled up next to me on the couch while I tried to finally find relaxation.

I thought that if I could just increase the distance between myself and my memories, I could finally feel “normal”. If I weren’t always remembering the things that’d happened, I could act as if they never did, and that would mean I was “healed”.

But the further I push things down, the stronger they find a way to resurface. Whether it was through a frustrated outburst or by draining me of energy, they always come back – louder, sharper, and usually with a vengeance. If there is one thing that memories and emotions don’t tolerate, it’s being ignored.

So, I would pull out my journals late at night, trying not to make a peep. I would write about the disappointment I’d felt, or the pain I was lugging around with me, and I’d try to make sense of it all. Writing became a way to heal by validating my own emotions, instead of hoping I’d receive that validation externally. For me, writing has not only been an outlet, but a way of survival and a show of strength.

How It All Started

My first journal I remember — and still have — is from second grade. I doodled characters from my favorite shows, and wrote about how excited I was to have a little brother. One day, I watched “Harriet the Spy”, and I got out a little notebook, tucked myself away behind big leather chairs, and observed my family. I’d write down what they were doing, what they seemed to be feeling, and I giggled in the corner—hoping not to be found.

Later, in my teenage years, I started journaling to process. I’d written about my journey with my sexuality, and I wrote love poems under my covers late at night. Then, my journals were filled with details of the trauma I’d experienced and how I would try to paint a smile on my face in school, only to cry alone in a bathroom stall at lunch.

Sometimes, it was letters rather than private entries. I’d written a letter to my mom to try to explain how I felt about things I’d experienced. I shared a Google Doc with my therapist, where I basically journaled honestly so she could fully understand my feelings outside of our weekly sessions.

Writing has always been the most honest and vulnerable way for me to express myself in a way that I always hope people will understand. I’m allowed to speak freely, revise, and avoid saying something in a way that will not emotionally translate.

The Power of Naming Things

To write is to hold the power of naming things. Writing helped me place names to feelings I didn’t know how to carry. “Sad” later became “abandoned”. “Angry” turned into “betrayed”, and “fine” all of a sudden was “actually, very not fine at all”.

The moment something has a name, it becomes a bit smaller – a tad easier to manage. Imagine you’re alone in the woods late at night, and you hear a twig snap behind you. Is it a bear? A monster? A serial killer who hasn’t been caught yet? Now, imagine you have a flashlight with you. You turn it on and shine it towards the noise to find that it’s only a rabbit, hopping along its path. Or maybe it really is a bear – but now at least you know what you’re facing. You can run, throw rocks, or maybe – just maybe – you can learn to coexist in the woods with the bear.

Writing has been my flashlight in the dark woods of my emotions – a tool to help guide me and name my feelings, so I can then plan how to handle them. Writing about pain allows me to dig into the causes and other underlying aches. Writing about my happiness and victories makes them feel more real and permanent. Whether the pages have tears on them or are filled with rushed, excited scribbles, they are tucked away somewhere safe.

Storytelling as a Reflection

The funny thing about writing is that you begin to see yourself and the world around you more clearly. Your memories are sealed in time, never to be questioned if you are recalling them the same after time passes. That version of yourself is solidified for you to revisit if you ever want to.

When I read my old journals, I notice patterns – the things I kept forgiving, the pain I kept experiencing, and the parts of me I kept silencing, only to live in those journals. Sometimes, it is heartbreaking to read, and sometimes it’s hilarious. I often use humor to cope, so I have some pretty good lines in there.

But reading my journals is always clarifying. It turns my life into something I can look at and comprehend. They don’t just collect my memories, but they give them a home. I have an archive of my life to look back on and even see how past experiences apply to myself today – or how they’ve contributed to my growth.

Healing in Layers

One thing I’ve learned is that healing never happens all at once. Sometimes, I write about the same things, or different things that spark memories of the same things. However, I always find a different angle or a new piece of myself. What is sometimes impossible to verbally put into words, never has limits inside my journals. Then, I have placed these feelings and have a reference point on what to say. I can take steps forward without shaking, or at least with a bit less.

Writing doesn’t mean these thoughts only have to live in the journals, but it means that they don’t only have to live in your mind anymore. When the thoughts are racing and filling your head until it feels like it’ll pop, you can deflate it by giving some of it a page to spill onto.

It doesn’t mean these thoughts don’t matter anymore, quite the opposite, actually. It means they don’t have to weigh your body down, and they can be kept somewhere safe until you’re ready for them again.

Sharing Your Story

For a long time, my writing has stayed private – just for me. Then, one day, I read more of other people’s writing. I found value in it and carried it with me for a while. I wondered why I didn’t think my writing could do the same for someone else.

Even if it was only one person who found a bit of comfort tucked into my words, that would matter. I could make someone feel understood and validated, and I decided that I wanted to do that. Suddenly, my story isn’t only my own, but I’m writing about shared human experiences.

Your Turn

If you’re reading this and wondering if telling your story will heal you, there is only one way to find out – to try. Start with a single sentence. Start with the thing that has been weighing you down, and give it another place to live. It doesn’t have to be public. It can live in a journal, online document, or a draft – but give it a place to land, so it doesn’t have to always be with you.

If you feel you have something to share or a weight you’d like to put down for a moment, get it out there. We all deserve to be heard, even if it’s only by ourselves first.

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