Thank you to
, , , ,and 20 others who tuned in to yesterday’s Write the Hard Thing Live to write and ground together.In this session, we started with breath and stillness because when you’re writing the hard stuff, your body has to feel safe enough to show up. Then I offered a gentle prompt, an entry point you could use or ignore.
We wrote for ten minutes without fixing or editing or pressure for it to be “right” or perfect. Just letting the words come as they are. This practice is about trust. With your story. With your body. And I know ten minutes can feel like nothing, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s doable, even in a full life. These small moments add up. They’re tiny acts of courage. And whether you return to what you wrote or not, you’ve already done the damn thing. Stand in that power.
This is what surfaced for me in today’s session. I’m sharing it because part of this practice is learning to tell the truth and trusting that our stories matter.
When we speak the hard things out loud, when we let them live outside our bodies, something shifts. It opens the door for healing, for connection, for someone else to say, same, love, same. Vulnerability can be permission. So here’s mine.
Prompt:
“I didn’t realize I was holding my breath when…”
Waiting
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath when Dad walked into the room. Would he notice me? Was he even awake, or stuck in that zombie-like trance meth sometimes put him in? I craved his attention because, yeah, he was my dad and I wanted him to love me, but also because he was all I had. Maybe I needed too much from him. Expected too much. Desperate for him to fill the infinite void Mom left behind when the cops hauled her off to prison. And it’s not that he didn’t try. He did, in his own way. But it was never going to be enough. They say one attuned parent is enough for a child to develop a secure sense of self, to develop a secure attachment. I didn’t have attunement from even one parent, but even if I had, even if Dad’s face had lit up when he saw me sitting there, cross-legged on the matted carpet, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to come home, I think a part of me would still have been empty. His love and efforts spilling out like water through a cracked bowl.
Will I always be waiting?
If anything stirred for you, whether in your body or on the page, I’d love to hear. You’re welcome to share what you wrote, or simply how it felt to pause. No pressure, just a gentle invitation. I’ll always hold space here if ya wanna share.
This is somatic storytelling. It’s about reclaiming authorship not just on the page, but in the body. It’s the rhythm of returning.
And the only real rule is this: tell the truth, how you remember it.
I love this space because it invites us to pause, for ourselves, for our stories, for the parts of us that are ready to speak. Taking this time, even 10 minutes, creates a practice, and honors your story and your body and how it shows up in the world and on the page. Even a short session becomes a kind of ceremony, a remembering. It’s a way of honoring your body and your voice, just as they are, right now.
This was only our second session, and already I’m feeling how much this space gives back. Between mothering, running businesses, writing, and just life, I’m usually spinning a hundred plates. And yesterday, I was deep in the chaos of packing for a road trip and a full month in Michigan with a toddler and two dogs. So this pause, this moment to land in my body and on the page, was so needed.
Thank you for being here with me. I’d love to know how it’s landing for you.
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, July 17th at 3:00pm ET
Thursday, July 24th at 12:00pm ET
*I’m testing out dates/times that work best for people, so feel free to comment with the days and times that suit your schedule below.
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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