Thank you
, , , , and 30 others for trusting, grounding, and writing with me today.In this first live session, we eased into a simple but powerful ritual of grounding our bodies, meeting the page, and writing what’s true. Together. (Ugh, I do wish I could see your faces, though!)
We started with breath and stillness because when you’re writing hard stories, the body needs to feel safe enough to show up. I guided a short somatic grounding practice, then offered a prompt:
“I remember the sound of…”
Sound drops us straight into memory through the emotional brain, so if you’ve ever found yourself crying at a song or startled by a slamming door, you know how quickly sound can unlock what we’ve tucked away.
We wrote for 10 minutes without fixing or editing, or judging. Just letting the words come, however they needed to. There was no pressure to make it polished or profound. We just showed up and worked on building trust with our story and with our body, one breath and one sentence at a time.
And I know, ten minutes can feel like barely enough. But that’s the point. This practice is meant to be something you can actually do, even in the middle of a full and busy life. It’s designed to be accessible, gentle, and repeatable, a space you can return to again and again as you teach your body that it’s safe to write the hard thing.
The goal isn’t to finish or even to make sense. We’re just trying to begin. To get out of our own way. These short, micro-moments of writing can become tiny acts of bravery, proof that you can start, that you can stay with it, even just for a moment. And that’s where the healing lives. And you’re welcome to return to these pieces when you have more time or space. But even if you don’t, this practice has already done something powerful. You’ve created an entry point into a story that matters.
Here’s what came up for me during this session. I’m sharing it here because we’re learning to tell the truth, and because our stories have power. And not just for us.
When we share our hard things, when we let them live outside our bodies for the first time, we create space for healing, for connection, for someone else to say, me too. Vulnerability is contagious in the best way. It gives others permission to tell their truth, too. Anyway, here’s mine.
I remember the sound of the buzzer in the prison’s visiting ward. It’s a sound that still lives in my body, in my bones. For years, it felt like an audible barrier between me and my mother, a thing that both stood between us and also led me to her. It meant I could see her face through the glass, hear her voice through the phone. I hated it for the way I craved it. It was deafening and soul-rattling, and I was like a salivating animal, a rat in a cage, waiting for the buzz. I’d hear it in my dreams, in the quiet moments when the house was empty and Dad was cooking meth in the garage, in the desert wasteland that sprawled out behind our house. I’d go out there searching for her, or what was left of her in my mind, the her before the cops hauled her off to prison, and there it would be. Buzz. A reminder that she was gone.
If you feel called, I’d love to hear how it went, whether you want to share your writing, or simply what it felt like in your body to pause, to breathe, to let the prompt in. You can leave a comment or drop it in the subscriber chat. No pressure to share, just an open door. I’m always here to hold space for the brave truths, a soft landing for you to tell your story.
Thanks for being here. Join me for my next live on Monday, June 30th at 12:00pm ET.
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