Whether we devour People magazine in the checkout lane or fangirl over the Royals on Instagram, there’s a part of us that just wants to know how other people live.
But in the middle of our pain and brokenness, our trials feel unique to us, and we can become overwhelmed or isolated. We convince ourselves that other people we know, or think we know, never experience similar feelings. The more famous or physically far away a person is from us, the harder it is to see them as a real person who struggles, too.
I have long loved reading memoir — between the first and last draft of this post I may or may not have devoured Beth Moore's All my Knotted up Life.
From C.S. Lewis’ Surprised by Joy to Mary Karr’s Lit, from Anne Lamott to Jackie Hill Perry, I have learned that while our struggles and circumstances and childhoods may all look very different, we share the common denominator of pain. It may be mental, physical, or emotional, but we’ve each endured it at some point.
Though I think deep down we recognize this, it’s often difficult to see in today’s filtered Instagram world. When we read each other’s stories, however, we can see — and love — each other better. I have been surprised at times that others, too, have done time in the abyss of grief, have battled the heat of internal anger, or soaked in a puddle of self-pity. I have found comfort in discovering I am not alone.
Reading memoir has made me a little more sensitive to people in real life; there is always more to the story than what we see on a person’s social media account, or even what they share over coffee. Though some stories may seem prettier than others, I have never read a memoir that was all glory, all the time.
In the spring of 2021, I took an online class with Leslie Leyland Fields called "Your Story Matters," based on her excellent book of the same name. As she discussed the importance of sharing our stories, she quoted Nanea Hoffman, who said:
Every time you share your story, you’re taking the hand of someone who thought they were the only one.
Compared to riveting memoirs like Educated by Tara Westover or The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, my memoir may seem … mild. But all our stories contain both golden sunlight and broken glass, exultant highs and desperate lows. Reading our words and listening to each other can help us walk those bumpy roads together.
I'm also curious to see what the author has done with this experience that they hold in their cupped, scarred hands. Did they learn from it? As they look back, was there any kind of transformation? What was their takeaway? So I can take it away, too.
Because even if our stories look different, there is always a lifeline of hope that can be tossed to the next reader, maybe a lesson learned, a forgiveness granted.
Your story may look different than mine, but even if you never write it down I can bet we've both struggled. In that we are kindred souls. The lifeline I leave you with is God’s grace; it’s threaded through my story, and yours, too. Will you look for it?
To put my whole story out there, all dirt and bones and brokenness, is a very vulnerable feeling. But if it grows a common thread between us, and more importantly, points to the source of true hope, it will have been worth it.
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