Once or twice a year I’m reminded powerfully why writing and sharing our stories is so important. Usually the reminder is in the form of an email sent by a stranger. I can’t express what these unexpected gifts in my inbox mean to me. They often seem to come at a time when I need them most.
I received one in January from a reader who’d discovered an essay I’d written in 2017. The essay, published in Motherwell magazine, described the period in parenthood when one of your children begins to outgrow the other. When I wrote the piece, my daughter was fourteen and my son was nine. She was navigating high school, he was still in elementary. Their once-shared path through childhood had diverged.
Readers left comments throughout the years—sometimes older siblings, sometimes younger ones—each quietly devastating. But the email I received last month was from a mother. She was going through the same dilemma with her children, who were around the same age as mine were all those years ago. It was the most heartbreaking time she’d experienced in parenthood so far, she said. She wanted to know how it had turned out with my kids, who are now adults.
It took me nearly an hour to draft my response. I wanted to say the right things. I wanted to acknowledge the fact that she’d reached out with a very personal story and let herself be vulnerable. Mostly, I wanted to give her hope.
Just like her email had given me hope. That we need each other’s stories. That they’re worth writing. That capturing something painful and sharing it can, nearly a decade later, continue to help others feel a little less alone.
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