At Least You Can Write About It
An observation, and a strong case for capturing your story, whatever it is
First off today, a little clearing up for anyone who jumped onto the Mothership train after it left the station. This is where I share pieces of my family’s Alzheimer’s journey during my mother’s ten-year bout with the disease. More deets are in this intro post, and here on my about page, but to be clear, our Nina passed away in 2019. I’m toggling between that journey and today, talking lightly about heavyish things in the hopes of making them a little more bearable to those wading through similar swamps.
Back to the point
Today’s piece is about something Nina once said to me long before she was sick. I was complaining about a particularly bad day. She listened patiently, as she always did and said, “At least you can write about it.”
She didn’t say it in a consoling way, or as an admonishment to quit complaining. The statement was complimentary. She was saying I had a talent, an outlet, and an audience. She was saying that most people just have to suck up their thoughts and wonder if they’re alone in them. I always knew she was proud of me, but this hinted at a sense of wonder, even envy. It confused me, because she could certainly write and express herself as well or better than me. God knows she had plenty of occasions to correct my grammar.
But, her generation of women were not encouraged or expected to express their own opinions or, God forbid, feelings. I don’t think she ever allowed herself to see her opinions as valid or unique enough to express and share. To do so seemed too vain and showing vulnerability seemed self-indulgent.
Why write?
And yet, she totally got what writing had done for me. She got that it was an outlet that let me navigate dicey territory: moving to a new middle school mid-year as a dorky, underdeveloped 9-year-old; always feeling like the urchin in a sea of mermaids; traveling the world, stuffed in vans with teammates who I adored, but who wanted to eat my lunch; maintaining professional relationships with coaches who I had crushes on, and others who didn’t believe in me; moving across the country to live in NYC with no friends and less fashion sense.
Writing was my constant companion during scary, lonely, high-pressure and just plain awkward times of life. In a time before vulnerability was seen as a shareable asset, writing gave me a way to see things from a perspective outside of the emotional sandbox of my own head. She wouldn’t do it for herself, but she cheered me on at every step, reminding me that even the worst situations and moments made great material.
Recently a friend reached out to me because she is the caregiver for a spouse with dementia. We had a long talk and caught up. Before we parted, I asked her if she was writing about her experience at all. She said she’d thought about it, but no—she wasn’t a good writer and didn’t see the point. I suspect that’s what stops most people. That and the sheer intimidation of staring at a blank page while waiting for brilliant thoughts.
This conversation came just after I had interviewed a former teammate for an article. She noted her love of writing instilled in high school, and that she’d written journals all through her ski racing career. Looking back at them now she is astounded at how juvenile they are, how painful it is to read them. I’ve felt that pain, and thought the exact same thing looking back at my journals. They are whiney, piney, ranty, pathetic. But they hold details otherwise lost, and capture the big picture mood of the moment.
My writing isn’t much different today. It’s not pretty when it first comes out, but it holds some truths that are worth exploring. Quite often, the pieces I am most reluctant to send out into the world—the ones that feel too personal, or too ordinary and just not worth putting into words—have gotten the strongest and most emotional response. It’s a phenomenon aptly explained in this quote from James Joyce:
"In the particular is contained the universal."
He meant (I think) that writing about the specifics of your experience, bestowing everyday things and feelings with meaning through honest detail, will connect with people. Sometimes, seeing those ordinary moments acknowledged and put into words may even help them.
As another friend explained what stops him from writing, “It’s not that I think whatever I’d say is not worthy. It’s just not unique.” That is Joyce’s point. Your own, thoughtful take on the ordinary is unique.
Nina’s Hidden Language
When I think back to my mom, I realize she was writing, for as long as she could. Her vehicle was her prolific thank-you notes. She had always written thank-you notes for everything, even for thank-you notes. They were telling a story I wasn’t ready to understand, let alone accept. Just as her email messages dwindled in their frequency, and lost all semblances of punctuation, so too did her writing by hand. Her story was unfolding in the decreasing legibility of her handwriting; in the slips of paper that she used when she could no longer find stationery; on the back of receipts, where she scrawled a hasty greeting; in the notes that I never got because they went into a Netflix envelope by mistake; in all the messages that never got to an envelope and, eventually, never got on paper.
I wish I’d saved all the notes and created a timeline, as I had done in my dated journals from my own ranty, venty, piney youth. They might have held clues to the big parts of her that we could no longer see.
When I started writing these weekly posts, and going back to our Alzheimer’s journey, someone who was along for the ride asked, “Were you taking notes the whole time?” Well, yes. Then and always. I encourage anyone else to as well. Just like it did in the scrum of adolescence and the crucible of sport, writing it down gets it out of you, lets you hover above a situation and observe it as a shot on a movie set rather than as an intractable scene of your life. It lets you see things from different perspectives and cherry-pick the funny stuff or the sweet stuff. It gives you the option to either see it in a different way, or simply to move beyond it.
So that’s my pitch. If you’re mired in something, try writing about it. Maybe it will be brilliant. Probably it will look like drivel. Either way, it’s out of you, and that’s always a good thing.
Up Next: A recap of where we’ve been, where we’re going and a few great resources I wish I’d had along the way.
Thanks for sharing this powerful outlet, Edie. Journaling has played such an integral role in my journey of grief. It was and still is the “safest space” to really acknowledge the depth of loss I feel. This in turn allows for healing, reflection, and continued love. Thanks for sharing your journey so openly! Your honesty is inspiring and brave. ❤️
This is so valuable, Edie! Getting it out is indeed so helpful! I get a little stuck when I try to write about personal things on my Substack, but your vulnerability and stories inspire me! Thanks for another great (and relatable!) post. 💛