Thank you
, , , , , and many others for tuning into today’s Write the Hard Thing Live to write and ground together.I’m finally home after spending a month at my brother’s house in Michigan. It was beautiful and full, but I’m so glad to be back in my own space. This week has been… a lot. I’ve felt emotionally wrung out and far from my center, which is why I’m extra grateful for this ritual we share, this little pocket of time to slow down, breathe, and come to the page together.
If you’re new here, welcome. Write the Hard Thing Live is a weekly gathering where we pause, ground, and write from a place of safety. I guide you through a short grounding practice to settle your nervous system, then I offer a gentle prompt to help you approach your hard stories without overwhelm. We write together for ten minutes. It’s short enough to feel doable, long enough to touch something true and get something on the page.
No pressure to get it perfect. No pressure to share. But you might be surprised at what surfaces when you give yourself the space to go there.
Why we start and end with grounding
Writing the hard thing can stir up a lot. I’m talkin’ old fears, grief, memories that live deep in the body. Without realizing it, we can slip into survival responses like fight, flight, or freeze. That’s why we begin and end with breath. This space is more than just about writing the story. It’s about building trust with the body that carries it. Grounding lets us stay in the chair when things get a little heavy and be kind to our body in the process.
Today’s theme was centered around goodbyes, which have been everywhere for me lately—saying goodbye to my family in Michigan, to my cousin who recently passed away, and it even showed up in my memoir chapter that went out this week, which was about saying goodbye to my mom in the prison visiting ward.
Our Write the Hard Thing prompt was:
Revisit a goodbye that left you unraveling.
Maybe it happened fast. Maybe you saw it coming, but couldn’t stop it. Maybe you didn’t say what you needed to say or maybe you said too much.
Close your eyes for a moment and go back there. Tap into your senses.
What did it smell like?
What was the light like?
What did your body feel?
What were you holding onto—physically or emotionally?
What did you have to leave behind?
You don’t have to tell the whole story. Just begin. Let the memory rise through your body before you try to explain it.
If you feel called to share—whether it’s just a single sentence or simply your title—I’d love to witness it. This space is yours as much as it is mine. Some of you dropped such powerful titles in the chat during today’s session, and I always love seeing what emerges for you. Here are a few that were shared…
“I Know What Death Looks Like” by
“The End of Innocence” by
“A Million Goodbyes Without A Single Hello” by
“Short Love, Powerful Love” by
Mine was “The End of Tour.”
Usually, I use these sessions to write about my parents because, honestly, that’s what I always seem to write about. But today I challenged myself to go somewhere different, to write about another kind of unraveling goodbye.
I wrote about when my husband and I first met on tour. I was working for a record label, and he was in a band. We spent that summer crisscrossing the country on this sweaty, chaotic, beautiful music tour. And then came my last day. He was headed on to Montreal, and I was going home.
I told myself it was just a summer fling. That’s how I framed it to him, too, as if it didn’t matter. These things happen on tour. No big deal. I kept trying to convince myself we didn’t mean anything. But then the cab came. He walked me to the door, put my bags in, held me, and kissed me. I smiled, and we said we’d keep in touch. I waved, acting cool. And the second the door shut and the cab pulled away, once he couldn’t see me anymore, I broke down. I mean, full-on, can’t-breathe sobbing. Oof.
I didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. Our story since then has been long and winding, with more than a few plot twists. But somehow, fourteen years later, we’re still here.
It’s funny how going back to the beginning of a story can feel both tender and electric. You see the version of yourself that existed before everything you know now, before the love grew roots, before the future took shape. It was actually fun to write about a sad thing that I know now ended up being a beautiful thing.
If a story came up for you today and you feel like sharing, I’d love to read it—just drop it in the comments. And if not, that’s okay too. Share only what feels good and right for you.
One of the writers shared in the chat today that they haven’t felt like writing alone lately, and how much they needed this, how nourishing it felt to be here. That’s exactly what makes this space so special to me. Writing can be such an isolating, lonely thing. We sit with our thoughts, our memories, our hard stories, and sometimes it feels like no one else could possibly understand.
But here, we get to write together. We get to hold space for each other in real time. Even though each of our stories is our own, the act of showing up together reminds us that we’re not alone in telling them. You are not alone in writing your hard stories. You are held here in community, in practice, in the quiet knowing that someone else is writing alongside you.
We’ll be here again next week. Same space. Same rhythm. Ten minutes at a time, building a practice and building trust with the stories we carry.
Come write with me.
How Does It Work?:
Free Live writing every week (20 min total: 10 min writing, plus short grounding practice before/after). Here’s the next one.
All subscribers receive a notification when I’m Live, and I’ll also send a reminder in the chat 12-48 hours beforehand.
Replay will be available for all subscribers (in case you need to write on your own time).
Show up as you are. Come late if you need. Even one minute of writing is a win. You never know what’s going to show up.
And remember, don’t overthink. Just write.
The Flow:
The first 5 minutes will be a brief welcome and grounding.
I’ll give the prompt (use it or follow your own thread).
We’ll write for 10 minutes, together. I’ll let you know when you have one minute left.
We’ll close with a short, regulating breath or body practice.
You can drop off quietly or stick around to ask a question in the chat.
Why Just 10 Minutes?
Because we’re gently retraining the body to believe this is safe.
Ten minutes, over and over again, becomes a practice. A pathway back to yourself. It’s long enough to begin but short enough to stay present. It’s doable, and over time, the body builds trust, which is the whole point. We’re creating a container (a safe, repeatable experience) where your nervous system can learn that it’s safe to tell the truth. We’re offering it new evidence, rewiring the way it relates to the stories we’ve been afraid to touch.
When are the next sessions?
Thursday, August 14th at 12:00pm ET
Tuesday, August 19th at 12:00pm ET
Friday, August 29th at 12:00pm ET
Join me for my next live here.
You’re creating a practice.
Try committing to three 10-minute grounded writing sessions a week.
Weekly (see schedule above): Join the free live writing session for all subscribers.
Sunday: I’ll drop a fresh prompt on Notes.
Thursday: Paid subscribers get a bonus prompt tied to each memoir chapter that I’m serializing here on Substack.
Look out for prompts at the end of my weekly essays and also in my monthly wrap-ups.
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