What Growing Up in a Meth Lab Taught Me About Writing the Truth

Why writing the truth feels so damn hard—and why that’s not your fault.

My home was a meth lab.

I’ve been saying that a lot lately—not for shock value, but because it’s the truth. And like most truths, it shaped everything: the way I move through the world, the way I sit down at the page. The way fear settled into my bones early and never really left.

I was terrified for most of my childhood. Fear wasn’t a moment—it was a mood. A steady undercurrent running through every memory I have. Prison visiting wards. Home invasions. Strangers pounding on the door in the middle of the night. A secret security camera aimed at the front porch, its green glow flickering from the monitor in Dad’s room. I’d stay up all night watching that screen. Eyes burning. Blinking hard. Waiting for something bad to happen.

Even years later—after Mom came home, after we moved, after the lab was long gone—I still couldn’t sleep unless I locked myself in the bathroom, light on, clutching a pipe like a weapon.

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Fear has been with me for as long as I can remember. In my body. In my breath. Shadowing every move. So when I first started writing about my childhood, my whole body revolted. My hands shook. My chest clenched. Nausea swelled hot in my stomach and rose in my throat. I’d stare at the blinking cursor for twenty minutes, write three lines, then get up to scrub the baseboards of my shitty apartment or organize the junk drawer—anything to keep my body from remembering.

I told myself I wasn’t disciplined enough. That maybe I wasn’t healed enough. Maybe I wasn’t a real writer at all.

But that wasn’t the truth.

What I didn’t know then was that my nervous system was responding to the story like it was still happening. And in some ways, it was. There was one scene I kept circling, then avoiding: the morning the cops stormed our house. I was three, curled into my mother’s side when they yanked me out of bed. Every time I tried to write it, I’d freeze at the first line—“It sounded like a storm outside the bedroom door…” Then my jaw would lock. My vision would blur. My whole body felt like it was sprinting downhill with no way to stop.

But the truth is, my nervous system was doing exactly what it was designed to do: keep me safe.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me back then:

Writing the truth—especially the kind of truth that’s lived deep in your body for years—isn’t just an intellectual act. It’s a physiological one. A full-body experience.

Your nervous system doesn’t always know the difference between real physical danger and the emotional risk of being seen. That blinking cursor can feel like a threat. Your body responds the only way it knows how—flight, freeze, fawn.

You sit down to write, and suddenly you're starving, exhausted, jittery, restless. You remember the laundry needs folding right this minute.

Or you dissociate. You check out. You scroll.

And then comes the shame spiral. You tell yourself you’re lazy. That you’re not cut out for this. That maybe your story doesn’t even matter.

But that’s not the truth.
Not even close.

If your body resists telling the truth, it’s not because the truth isn’t worth telling. It’s because the story is heavy—and some part of you is still carrying it alone.

So what if, instead of pushing through, we paused? What if we got curious instead of critical?

What if we asked:

What’s happening in my body right now?
And what might it need to feel safe enough to keep going?

Because what I’ve learned over the years is that I can’t write the real stuff unless I also stay with myself. Not just the part of me that’s ready to tell the story, but the part that’s still scared. The part that still remembers. The part that still needs care.

So now, when I sit down to write, I start small.

I put my feet on the floor.
I breathe into my belly.
Sometimes I whisper, “I’m safe now. I’m here. I can take my time.”

And then I write. One messy line at a time. No pressure to make it pretty. Just true.

If writing the truth feels hard—if your body tenses, your mind goes blank, or everything in you wants to get up and do the dishes—please know this:

You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not doing it wrong. And you’re definitely not alone. Your body is just asking for a little more care. A little more presence. A little more pacing. That doesn’t mean you’re not ready.

It means the story matters.

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That’s why I created the Fear-to-Flow Framework—a body-based approach to writing the stories that scare us, without abandoning ourselves in the process.

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Have you felt this?

What happens in your body when you try to write something tender or true?

What helps you stay with yourself when the fear kicks in?

I’d love to hear. Let’s talk in the comments.

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P.S. If this resonated, I’m telling these stories—one chapter at a time—here on Substack. It’s my way of honoring my past without letting it define me. The One Who Leaves is a memoir about survival—about growing up in the wreckage of addiction, searching for love in the chaos, and trying not to lose yourself in the process. It’s for anyone who’s lived through something hard and is still learning how to hold it. The first few chapters are up now, with more to come soon. I’d love for you to read along.