Almost three months ago, a friend asked me for help. She was writing her story, and she wanted me to help her finish it. I admire, respect, and adore this woman for so many reasons—her tenacity, her vision, her strength. When I think of her, she’s so much of what I always wanted to be. I didn’t know how I could possibly help her write her story. It seemed too important—too beyond me.
But in spite of how doubtful I was that I could help someone like her with what I saw as such a personal, and monumental task, I couldn’t say no.
As we began the collaboration, we often kicked off each session chatting about ourselves, and sharing each other’s histories. Our backgrounds are quite different in many respects, but we share some painful experiences.
I go to her house to help her tell her story, but often end up telling some of my own. We read through bits of her manuscript in order to build upon what is already such a rich and colorful story, and as we talk about moments in order to paint our picture, we trade parts of our lives we typically don’t share with others.
One day, she asked me if I had ever considered writing my own story. I quickly brushed off the idea, because in my mind, my story is not so unique, interesting or special. In my brush off, I alluded to the fact that when I blog, I occasionally share the general idea of parts of my life that help me explore the ways in which we deal with trauma, abuse, healing, family dysfunction and human foibles. But I can’t imagine anyone caring to read the details of my life—the nitty gritty.
I think many of us look at ourselves and don’t really see the whole picture. We don’t see ourselves and the things we have been through or accomplished in the way others do. It’s as if we just aren’t able to see ourselves or our experiences as enough—as worthy.
I know I do this all the time. It’s first nature. I constantly believe nothing about me or my life is equal to anyone else’s. It’s always less, and every time I share even the slightest detail, I feel embarrassed that I allow any of us to take up emotional space—anywhere.
Another friend recently shared the details of her very personal loss when she was pregnant. I identified with so many of the feelings she shared, and I responded to her story. Even in doing so, I was quick to discount my own experience, because even though I had felt the pain of loss, I also felt my own experience was barely worth mentioning, simply because in my eyes, I had been through so much less than she had. What right did I have to hurt? This friend is another amazing woman, whom I respect and admire, and am humbled and grateful to know. In spite of her own losses and pain, she digs deep into her being and does everything she can to make the world a better place everyday. I let far less get me down, and I can barely juggle getting my daughter out the door for school and remembering to return library books.
I am not looking for anyone to argue that I am wrong about what I see when I look at myself, or my history. But I do think that there is a sadness about the way many of us look at ourselves and see less.
I mentioned my writing friend’s vision as being something that I admire. When she looks at people she sees things other people don’t. She looks at people and asks herself what their story is, and how she can share it. And what’s even more amazing is that she knows sharing other people’s stories is a gift to them. I know this from personal experience, because it’s a gift she gave to me a while back.
I am not looking for anyone to argue that I am wrong about what I see when I look at myself, or my history. But I do think that there is a sadness about the way many of us look at ourselves and see less.
I mentioned my writing friend’s vision as being something that I admire. When she looks at people she sees things other people don’t. She looks at people and asks herself what their story is, and how she can share it. And what’s even more amazing is that she knows sharing other people’s stories is a gift to them. I know this from personal experience, because it’s a gift she gave to me a while back.
She was a driving force behind a story about my daughter that gave me an opportunity to see her in the way others see her everyday. In our day to day lives with our families, we often end up missing sweet moments, because another moment didn’t turn out the way we hoped. We get stuck in the business of our own worries and forget to step back so we can see the picture more clearly. We may not even realize or believe that there is a picture to see, or a story to tell.
Just for one day, I wish that every one of us who looks at ourselves under a cloud of mundanity or unworthiness could see our lives and stories in the way my friend does. I wish we would look at our lives—even in our worst moments—and instead of being afraid of how painful or how dull the next moment might be, we would wonder what happens next. We would wonder about the next page of our lives in the same way we might stay up late at night, trying to get through just one more chapter of that book we can’t bear to put down.
I don’t have that vision. I don’t have that belief that my own story is worth reading. But we all need someone in our lives who does, and who is willing to show us we’re wrong.
