“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou
Content Warning: This post contains personal reflections on family relationships, emotional impact, and the challenges of telling my full truth after years of protecting others’ feelings. It discusses what it means to silence parts of your own story to keep the peace and the decision to stop doing that. While no graphic details are included, these topics may be difficult for some readers. Please read with care.
This week’s article is going to be a little different. For the past several weeks, something has been weighing heavily on my mind. Actually… probably much longer than that. I just did not have the words for it yet.
Recently, someone who knows me very well made a comment that has stayed with me. They pointed out that, even when telling my own story, I have often gone out of my way to protect certain people; they said I had been too kind to certain people in my writing.
In the moment, I agreed, but I continued to think about it after on my way home. At first, I was not sure I agreed. I have never lied in this blog. I have never exaggerated a story. I have never intentionally tried to embarrass anyone. Everything I have written has been true.
But the more I sat with that comment, the more memories came back about what I was writing about and how I went about writing it. The hours I spent rereading every blog before I hit “Publish,” changing a sentence, removing a detail, and asking myself, “Is this going to come across too harsh? Will someone be offended?”
But still ensuring: Is this still an honest reflection of what happened?
That is when something finally clicked. I never changed the facts. I changed the weight they carried. I removed context, softened details, and rewrote sentences until they felt easier for those people to read.
“Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we’ll ever do.”
— Brené Brown
Looking back, I realized I was not protecting the truth. I was protecting their comfort. And that realization made me ask myself a question I could not ignore anymore. What was I truly trying to protect? First, it should be me, right?
The first memory that came to mind was the interviews I did with The Wichita Beacon a few months after Dustin died (links below):
Kansas Fentanyl Death Leads Fiancée to Fight – Beacon: Wichita
Storm of Addiction, Part 2: A Fentanyl Overdose – Beacon: Wichita
Initially, I did the interview to get Dustin’s story out, but she wanted to write about someone who lost another person to fentanyl. So, I decided to go ahead and do it. I was willing to tell my story to get his noticed. Unfortunately, it started to get me closer I thought a couple times, but we are currently back at the beginning. But I am proud today that I did that. I had become used to telling my story in recovery and at that point I was trying to get anyone to listen.
The reporter, an amazing and kind woman, listened to my story with incredible compassion. As I shared everything that had happened, she seemed genuinely surprised by how much had occurred in my life.
After the article had already been officially published, one person became very upset over how a sentence was stated. Ironically, those were not even the sentences I thought would be the hardest to read; it wasn’t even on my radar as anything that would upset anyone.
And the reporter did not have to change anything. The article was already published. But after hearing my story and understanding everything I had been carrying and was still carrying, she kindly went back and revised those sentences because she understood it would help create less chaos in my life.
At that point, only a few months had passed since Dustin died. Nothing felt easy. Her kindness and sharing my story to spread his meant more to me than she will probably ever know. But changing those sentences changed absolutely nothing.
And now I know that the only way the outcome would have been different is if I had never told my story at all.
That experience stayed with me because I realized I had carried that same pattern into my own writing. I had thought that if I could just find the right words, soften the details, or make my experiences easier for certain people to read, maybe I could tell my story and protect the relationship at the same time.
But relationships were going to change anyway; no matter how much I tried to get them not to. No amount of editing could guarantee understanding. No amount of carefully chosen words could guarantee acceptance.
If it had not been my writing…
If it had not been this blog…
If it had not been my story…
It would have been about something else…
Because sometimes the conflict is not truly about one sentence, one article, or one blog post. Sometimes it comes from wounds that have never been healed.
That does not mean someone’s feelings are not real or valid. It does not mean they are not allowed to be uncomfortable. But I have learned that I cannot make my healing dependent on whether someone else is ready to face theirs. If I had never faced mine, I would most likely be dead.
There is also a difference between privacy and secrecy. Privacy is healthy. If someone has trusted me with something deeply personal, and I promised something would stay with me, I will continue protecting that trust because it is not my story to tell.
But my experiences are my story… even if others are involved. My reality is my story. The impact those experiences had on my life is my story.
“Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.”
— Robert Frost
For a long time, I confused protecting someone’s privacy with protecting their comfort. Those are not the same thing. I deserve to tell my story openly and honestly. Not recklessly, not cruelly, and not to embarrass or hurt anyone. But to be honest so my readers can truly connect to my experience; and I can be honest with myself.
When I first started this blog, and later when I shared that I was writing a book, I think some were surprised, but not everyone. I have been talking about writing a book for a long time. However, it may have been a surprise that I followed through with it. I also do not think everyone fully understood what that would actually mean long-term.
It was not just that I was going to write. It meant I was eventually going to write about my life, my experiences, and my reality. And there are a lot of people that are a part of those stories: whether good or bad. As those stories become more complete, some people may not like what they read or they may continue to read. I understand that.
But I also know I cannot spend the rest of my life editing my experiences to make them easier for other people to hold. I can’t please everyone and changing my truth isn’t going to heal any relationship. God knows some of the stories that come out are not going to look great on me. But I am willing to tell it because it made me who I am today, and I am pretty damn proud of that woman today.
“You own everything that happened to you. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
— Anne Lamott
And don’t worry… unless I have your direct permission, I will not be using your real name in my book (assuming you are a part of my story). Please don’t get mad if the fake name I give you is not to your liking. 😅
I have talked about all of this with both my talk therapist and my EMDR therapist. Not just once, but many times now. Both have encouraged me to continue telling my story. Both believe it has been an important part of my healing. And both believe it has a huge potential to help other people.
That matters to me. Because every time someone reaches out and says, “I thought I was the only one,” or “What you said really helped me today,” I am reminded why I started writing and telling my story in the first place.
Some people may never understand why I feel the need to share my experiences or speak out on things I am passionate about. And that is okay. Every person heals differently. Every person finds purpose differently. And if you have read my blog, then as you know, no one’s brain works exactly the same.
Some people heal quietly.
Some people heal through service.
Some people heal through art.
Some people heal by helping someone else feel less alone.
I believe I was given a loud and proud voice, a heart that feels deeply for others, and a healthy (maybe a bit too big) dose of stubbornness. But maybe that is exactly what those gifts were meant for.
So, moving forward, I am going to do my best to stop rereading, rewriting, rereading again, and trying to make every sentence “safe” before I publish it. It honestly takes hours (the deep ones, like half a day) to rewrite over and over until I think it’s perfect and to everyone’s liking, after spending hours preparing it throughout the week. It is exhausting and takes a lot of time from things I could be doing, otherwise. So, no more of that. I am going to do my best not to overthink it.
Will it always be perfectly polished? Probably not. Absolutely not if I’m going to try not to read it at least five times once its finished, lol.
Will there still be grammar mistakes? Yes.
And I have ADHD, so let’s be real—I will probably still overthink it a little, maybe some days more than a little. 😅 But progress, not perfection! I’d lie if I said I didn’t do it to an extent on this one — but I stopped. It is going to be a process to learn to let go! To be able to tell my story, be proud of it, and don’t worry about what others think. Again, that isn’t mine to hold anymore. It never was.
I would rather publish something honest, heartfelt, and real than keep editing the life out of my own experience just to make it easier for someone else to read. If people cannot handle it, they don’t have to read it.
“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”
— Flannery O’Connor
I cannot control whether someone understands my story.
I cannot control whether someone agrees with it.
I cannot control whether someone becomes uncomfortable.
I cannot control whether someone chooses to heal from their own experiences.
Those things are not mine to carry. What I can carry is my integrity, my honesty, my compassion, and my willingness to tell my story in a way that is truthful, respectful, and complete. Because my story deserves to be told just as honestly as anyone else’s—as honest as it felt.
And if my honesty makes someone uncomfortable, maybe the question is not whether I should have stayed quiet. Maybe the question is whether something in their own life still needs healing.
This is not about revenge or blame. It is not about exposing someone else’s story. It is about finally giving myself permission to openly and honestly share my own experiences and my own reality, regardless of who was involved. It is finally time for me to own my truth and heal.
Fully.
“Your heartache is someone else’s hope. If you make it through, somebody else is going to make it through. Tell your story.”
— Kim McManus
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