Fear and Our Authentic Self

There was a time I tucked my stories away in drawers lined with fear—Too bright, and they might blind someone. Too dark, and they might scare them off. So I gave the world filtered versions, draped in acceptable tones, hiding the wild, aching, radiant truth of my becoming.

But I have come to understand—stories are not meant to be buried. They are the medicine. Fragments of pain and triumph, pieces of heartache and hope, woven together into something greater than the self: a shared language of healing.

I’ve tasted the medicine in my own words—when I dared to speak of single motherhood, of longing, of opening my heart again when it had almost forgotten the rhythm of love. I found strength in the messiness of it all. Even in the shame, in the quiet resentment, in the stories I once tried to exile from my own memory. Now I gather them like sacred herbs, to offer to others. Because every story matters.

Whispers of Truth: Stories as Medicine

Whether written, whispered, painted, or danced—when we tell our truths,we create spaces where others can say: “Me too.”

I realized one of the ways we make impact and contribute to healing processes is by telling our stories. And most of all, I realized that every story matters.

Whether we share story on a piece of paper, or whispering it to another human’s ear, or expressing it through shapes and colors, or dancing with it...we create sacred space that others can enter, where others can find themselves individually and collectively, and used those stories as medicine.