Thank you to
, , , , and 15 others who tuned in to yesterday’s Write the Hard Thing Live to write and ground together.We had this session outside because I’m staying with my brother and his family in Michigan for the month, and the house is full of wild joy children, which is lovely, but loud AF. I had beetles in my hair multiple times during the LIVE haha (thanks to
for looking out!), but even so, I loved being out there with the birds and the sun.We started with breath to ground our nervous systems because when we’re writing into the hard stories, they can flood our system or try to push us out of the chair. The body wants to bolt. What we’re practicing here is staying long enough to get curious and let what comes up find its way onto the page. This is how we teach the body that it’s safe to tell the truth.
After grounding, I offered a prompt as an invitation, a way in. Sometimes when we’re staring at the blank screen, what we really need is a hand to hold. The prompt is that. Let’s go in together.
We wrote for ten minutes without fixing it along the way or trying to make it “good.” This practice is about letting the words come through as they are, building trust with both the story and the body. The shaping can come later. For now, just let it breathe.
The theme for yesterday’s prompt was what I call The Family Script. The spoken and unspoken rules we were raised with about what could be said, what had to be swallowed, what we had to keep buried. Every family has them. The stories that were told over and over. And the ones we were never allowed to name but were somehow always known.
In my family, silence was its own language. Maybe it was in yours, too.
Our Write the Hard Thing prompt was:
“In my family, we didn’t talk about…”
Let that line take you somewhere. Into memory. Into the body. Into the truths you weren’t given permission to speak. Into the rules that were more felt than said.
This is what surfaced for me in today’s session. I think part of the healing, part of the freedom, is in the sharing. Letting yourself and your story be seen. I’ve been writing like this for a long time, and I’ve reached a place where sharing makes me feel connected. But if that’s not where you are yet, that’s okay. There’s no pressure here. Just a gentle invitation.
If you feel called to share, even just a sentence, I’d love to witness it. This space is here for you.
A million little lies and one truth
In my family, we didn’t talk about the meth fumes seeping through the walls from Dad’s lab in the garage. We said, “Dad is painting again,” and no one corrected us. Our eyes burned. Our heads pounded. The air stung with a scent that was part bleach, part cat piss, and still, no one said a word. I guess they thought we’d get used to it. Maybe we did. But when I went to other kids’ houses and they smelled like tortilla soup or those pumpkin pie candles from the drugstore, I knew something was different. I just didn’t know what because no one named it. We didn’t talk about drugs. About how my parents needed them like oxygen. About how, when Mom had too many, she’d rob a house. Or three hundred. We didn’t talk about it, not even when I handed her a smoke-blackened pipe with shaking hands. “That’s not what you think,” she said. “You’re imagining things.” The bag of white powder as light as snowfall that I found in Dad’s jacket was nothing. Of course it was nothing. And I let myself believe them because the lies were easier than believing my parents couldn’t tell me the truth. But lies have a way of showing up in the body as grief and in silence that hardens into shame. And maybe that’s why I write now. Because silence made me sick. And the truth, no matter how heavy, is the only thing that ever made me feel free.
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.
One of the writers in the chat said, “The 10. Min. Prompts/write help me to begin writing. The getting started and having the grounding were all the preparation needed. That’s been a great benefit to me.”
YES. That’s exactly what we’re doing here. We’re just trying to begin without losing ourselves in the process.
That’s what somatic storytelling is about. We’re reclaiming authorship not just on the page, but in the body. It’s the rhythm of returning. Of remembering ourselves.
I’ve been loving these sessions, especially while I’m away. They’ve given me a way to stay close to my writing, even in the chaos of summer with happy sticky sunshine children and a full house, and a different rhythm to the days.
So thank you for showing up, for holding this space with me, and for making time for your voice, too. This practice we’re building really does feel like something special.
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
Tuesday, July 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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