Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind
there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out
what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.
What I want and what I fear.1
—JOAN DIDION
For author Joan Didion, writing is as natural and essential as breathing. So, it's no surprise that writing was her refuge in the months after her husband died suddenly from cardiac arrest. The Year of Magical Thinking is Didion's beautiful and heartbreaking memoir, her reporting from the raw front lines of her grief.
In a time of loss and grief, sitting down and writing may offer a sanctuary, not just for authors and experienced wordsmiths, but for the rest of us, too. There's an extensive body of research about how writing can help.2
A few decades ago, psychologist James Pennebaker pioneered what has become a robust field of study and practice called expressive, or therapeutic, writing.
Pennebaker and his colleagues showed that writing can be helpful for those who have been through traumatic and emotionally challenging experiences that are hard to share. The research showed improvements in the health and well-being of those participants in an experimental group who were asked to write (expressing their deepest thoughts and feelings about a traumatic event) for three or four consecutive days, for fifteen to thirty minutes each day.3
Pennebaker explains that when we write about these events, we have the chance to describe, organize, and structure disturbing experiences into a story that helps us understand the complexity of what has happened to us. “In the same story we can talk both about the cause of the event and its many implications. . . . Once a complex event is put into a story format, it is simplified. The mind doesn't need to work as hard to bring structure and meaning to it.”4
Many of us were told at some time in our lives that we can't write. Maybe this happened in middle school, or you were criticized by a parent, or in a college writing class. And you've come to believe it. We may harbor a critical inner voice like an old ghost that tells us we're a fraud, not good enough, and we're never going to find the words we need or put them in the right order. If this is the case for you, try throwing these harsh old voices a bone and ask them to respectfully quiet down!
If you feel stuck, start with something simple. Write a list of all the emotions you're feeling, or of what you need to do this week, or of what you can imagine unfolding in the next few months, or of people you can call on, or of ways to get out of the house. If none of these ideas resonate with you, choose something that does.
Consider writing in a grief journal—a notebook or computer file—that's private and meant just for you. Maybe start with just a few words, even a sentence describing how hard it is to get started. Write about how your morning is going, or isn't. As you feel more comfortable and discover something interesting, you might write more. Write whatever comes to mind—without stopping or editing yourself. Keep your hand or fingers moving, and write.
Think about sending an appreciative note or email to someone who was kind or especially helpful to you—a relative, friend, doctor, hospice nurse, or caregiver.
You might even find solace, connection, and joy in writing a letter to a loved one who is no longer here. A man in one of my bereavement groups writes a letter to his partner every Thursday, because that was the day of the week she died.
When you write—even though you don't intend to actually send the letter—your words help you to stay connected with, and to linger with, the dear person you've lost: who they were, what you loved together, the conversations you shared, and the precious gifts you want to carry forward.
AN UN-MAILED LETTER TO A PARTNER WHO DIED
Dear Jim,
What a glorious morning! Sunny and cold (9 degrees), freshly fallen snow. I went cross-country skiing on the rail trail—beautiful and peaceful. The only company was a pair of deer that leapt across the trail in front of me. Breaking a trail on the new soft snow, feeling wonderful to be outside in the quiet where we walked together so often (and for once I was dressed in just enough layers—half of which were yours, half mine). I felt myself smiling, moving through the snow. I felt you with me. I hadn't taken skis out the last two winters, last winter not enough snow and the winter before too much and my focus on being with you. I was happy to be skiing again, appreciating the stillness.
With much love and gratitude,
—Debbie
Whether you're an accomplished writer or just want to try something new, you might choose to write your own story, your deeply personal account of what you've suffered and been through and where you are today.
We're all drawn to stories. Some say that storytelling is in our genes and is basic, just like language itself. As children, we listen to and tell stories. Later, we learn to read fiction and nonfiction stories. We spend countless hours watching stories on TV and plugging in to social media. Even advertising celebrates and exploits our love affair with stories.
Consider for a moment the shape of many compelling stories. Often there's a sympathetic character facing a dilemma that upsets his peace of mind or equilibrium. He's burdened by something, or wants something he doesn't have.
This initiates a plot or a series of connected events. As a reader, you turn page after page, staying on board because you want to know what will happen next. As the story unfolds, the character makes a plan, stumbles, tries something different, and then reaches a turning point where she learns something. She grows, changes, and arrives at a different place from where she started.
Do you begin to see how this relates to your own story about grief and suffering? Might writing a personal narrative help you find meaning? You sit at your desk, or if it's possible, you go to the library or a café, and you spend time sifting through the metaphorical rubble. You pay attention to details you might have overlooked. You recall conversations. And you bear witness to what you were thinking and feeling and how you acted in different moments.
By writing your story, you discover connections, explore underlying ideas and emotions, see where and how you struggled, take measure of the obstacles you faced, what you could control and what you couldn't. As you write and reflect, you might discover negative stories you've been telling yourself about the part you played. Perhaps you see that you are running an old tape that shames you for not being a better caregiver or for speaking angry words. You see how you continue to get stuck. And you can evaluate these unspoken narratives for the truths or distortions they hold.
You now have an opportunity to shape a new, more compassionate (and likely more accurate) story, which may even change the way you see yourself and allow you to make sense of pain and suffering. This experience—thinking, feeling, reflecting, writing, editing, shaping, rewriting—just may contribute to putting your mind more at ease.
Maybe you'll write a messy first draft that you keep to yourself or toss out, or perhaps you'll write a polished piece that you share with the world. Maybe your writing will help you resolve difficult feelings or finish an unfinished conversation. Maybe you'll laugh out loud, or come to see that you aren't alone, that what you've experienced is part of the human condition, that we're all in this together. We love. We lose. We grieve. We go on. Sometimes we even experience gratitude, redemption, and joy.
For now, come just as you are! Start simple, or if you prefer, start big. What comes to your mind?
Sit quietly for a few moments and attend to the flow of your breath, in and out. Say slowly, to yourself, the following phrases:
May I write to understand what I think and feel.
May writing help me connect more deeply to myself.
May I find words to hold both my sorrow and my joy.
If you can't think of how to start writing, try using a prompt, such as one of these sentence beginnings. Or think of one that works for you:
(as a letter to someone who is no longer with you)
Try writing for fifteen minutes about an experience that's emotionally difficult and hard to talk about. When you're done, take a moment to reflect on what you've written:
Brainstorm a list of people, places, and things you love:
We think we get over things.
We don't get over things.
Or say, we get over the measles,
but not a broken heart.
We need to make that distinction.
The things that become part of our experience
never become less of our experience.
How can I say it?
The way to “get over” a life is to die.
Short of that, you move with it,
let the pain be pain,
not in the hope that it will vanish
but in the faith that it will fit in,
find its place in the shape of things
and be then not any less pain
but true to form.
Because anything natural has an
inherent shape and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That's what we're looking for:
not the end of a thing
but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life without
obliterating (getting over) a
single instant of it.
—Albert Huffstickler