Aww, thank you, Kimberly. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing here (or why) but something keeps calling me back, so I’m listening. Your being here to witness it means a lot to me.
I read this last night and felt the little girl metaphorically and physically squished between two worlds just as she was squished in the car. I cannot wait to read more.
These vignettes are so powerful, and painful--a shared pain with you, that little girl, her innocence, longing to feel at home and safe in her own existence, and to belong and be loved with tenderness and care.
Your courage is a teaching. Your willingness to come to the page because “something keeps calling me back” is a bravery writ large. Thank you for listening and heeding the call.
And I wish to share that sometimes what you write lingers with such profound feeling, the only response is silence--holding quietly the feelings the writing stirs and the compassion and recognition that what you write is not a story on the page for us to read (as if to consume) but a recollection of a moment that was and is real and true in your real and true life. I offer this to say that your most profound pieces may be the ones with the fewest comments, ironically, which would not mean your work is not engaging. It would mean it is . . . profoundly.
Thank you for saying that, Renee. An editor wrote something to me recently about how reading about trauma is hard for people and sometimes they can only give it so much of their energy. I get that.
Sometimes I feel like I should preface a memoir piece by telling everyone that even though many of my early stories seem dark, I'm okay...really, I am! Part of me doesn't want people to read and feel sad for me and part of me doesn't want to tell anyone how to feel. I try to think about what I want people to get out of reading my stories and the only thing that makes sense right now is that maybe so that other people who are hurting can see that suffering isn't inevitable?
Thank you for your kind words. I think of you and your travels often and love getting a glimpse of the world through your eyes (and your writing.) 🫶
My sense is that the fact that you're ok shines through the dark.
As a reader, of course, I feel sad, but I do not feel a sadness that pities. It is sadness of empathy, of conscience (i.e., of inner feeling recognizing inner feeling). We share in our shared humanity on your page.
I understand the impulse to shy away. On behalf of your writing, I offer this: Please do not. What wants to come forth as an offering through you would be diluted, steered away from your intention to support "other people who are hurting" to "see that suffering isn't inevitable" or at least, that it can be transformed.
Your mom sounds a lot like mine. I'm so grateful that you wrote this, and that I came across your newsletter. Your courage is inspiring, and reading similar stories to mine is so validating.
So, thanks for this post—it's been with me all day. I look forward to reading more. It's interesting what the editor said to you about people only having so much energy to read about trauma. I've wondered a lot about this, and also how one can tell these stories without self-pity, which is challenging, and which you've done beautifully here.
I look forward to reading more of your wonderful posts as an example of how I might tell some of my own stories at some point. Like you, it's coming from a good place now, so the hope is to help more people see that healing is possible, and given the many of us who've experienced these sorts of upbringings, we're all far from alone. 🙏
Well this was poignant and beautiful! Fingers crossed the next bit comes soon! 🧡
Thanks, Medha. Revisiting the past in these pieces is not something I planned but it’s been cathartic in a way I hadn’t expected.
The ache. I’m really with you as I read your chapters. Feeling that little girl who longed to belong.
Aww, thank you, Kimberly. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing here (or why) but something keeps calling me back, so I’m listening. Your being here to witness it means a lot to me.
I read this last night and felt the little girl metaphorically and physically squished between two worlds just as she was squished in the car. I cannot wait to read more.
Thank you for reading, Deepshikha. 💖
Christy,
These vignettes are so powerful, and painful--a shared pain with you, that little girl, her innocence, longing to feel at home and safe in her own existence, and to belong and be loved with tenderness and care.
Your courage is a teaching. Your willingness to come to the page because “something keeps calling me back” is a bravery writ large. Thank you for listening and heeding the call.
And I wish to share that sometimes what you write lingers with such profound feeling, the only response is silence--holding quietly the feelings the writing stirs and the compassion and recognition that what you write is not a story on the page for us to read (as if to consume) but a recollection of a moment that was and is real and true in your real and true life. I offer this to say that your most profound pieces may be the ones with the fewest comments, ironically, which would not mean your work is not engaging. It would mean it is . . . profoundly.
With love,
Renée
Thank you for saying that, Renee. An editor wrote something to me recently about how reading about trauma is hard for people and sometimes they can only give it so much of their energy. I get that.
Sometimes I feel like I should preface a memoir piece by telling everyone that even though many of my early stories seem dark, I'm okay...really, I am! Part of me doesn't want people to read and feel sad for me and part of me doesn't want to tell anyone how to feel. I try to think about what I want people to get out of reading my stories and the only thing that makes sense right now is that maybe so that other people who are hurting can see that suffering isn't inevitable?
Thank you for your kind words. I think of you and your travels often and love getting a glimpse of the world through your eyes (and your writing.) 🫶
My sense is that the fact that you're ok shines through the dark.
As a reader, of course, I feel sad, but I do not feel a sadness that pities. It is sadness of empathy, of conscience (i.e., of inner feeling recognizing inner feeling). We share in our shared humanity on your page.
I understand the impulse to shy away. On behalf of your writing, I offer this: Please do not. What wants to come forth as an offering through you would be diluted, steered away from your intention to support "other people who are hurting" to "see that suffering isn't inevitable" or at least, that it can be transformed.
((That's me cheerleading!))
With much love,
Renée
❤️❤️ Thank you for such thoughtful words (as always.)
. . . for what they are worth!
Your mom sounds a lot like mine. I'm so grateful that you wrote this, and that I came across your newsletter. Your courage is inspiring, and reading similar stories to mine is so validating.
So, thanks for this post—it's been with me all day. I look forward to reading more. It's interesting what the editor said to you about people only having so much energy to read about trauma. I've wondered a lot about this, and also how one can tell these stories without self-pity, which is challenging, and which you've done beautifully here.
I look forward to reading more of your wonderful posts as an example of how I might tell some of my own stories at some point. Like you, it's coming from a good place now, so the hope is to help more people see that healing is possible, and given the many of us who've experienced these sorts of upbringings, we're all far from alone. 🙏