Prompt: Whose comfort are you protecting?

Pen & Mend Journal Prompt (No. 68) On the sacred work of telling your story and practicing discernment

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A Gentle Note Before We Begin

This reflection contains mentions of suicide, sibling death, infant loss, and sexual abuse. If any of these topics feel like too much for you right now, please take care of yourself in whatever way you need—whether that means stepping away, reading with support, or returning when the time feels right.

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Telling Our Stories

Are you familiar with the newly released memoir The Tell by Amy Griffin? It’s Oprah Winfrey’s newest book club pick and is popping up everywhere online. In case you haven’t, The Tell is a powerful memoir about memory, trauma¹, and the courage it takes to uncover and share long-buried truths. I haven’t read it yet, but I recently listened to Oprah interview the author.²

During their conversation, Amy Griffin shared with Oprah that a catalyst for her journey—from uncovering a trauma her mind had hidden for decades to ultimately telling her story—came after she witnessed a shift in her husband. For years, when people had asked if he had any siblings, he would say no—he was an only child. But after going through a healing process, he began to answer differently: “...I had a sister, and she committed suicide.” The honesty with which he told his story inspired Amy to pursue her own healing because she could no longer live with a secret living inside of her.

Oprah and Amy go on to talk about something I learned years ago, which is that our secrets make us sick, and telling our stories can offer us healing—and regain power and agency.

While I’ve known this to be true, and much of my work now involves inviting others to discover healing through writing honestly about their experiences and emotions, listening to Amy share what she witnessed in her husband gave me pause—because my experience has been the opposite of her husband’s.³

The quiet work of deciding what to hold, what to share, and what to keep sacred.

When my daughter died, I was thrust into military life and still forming new community, meeting new people all the time and answering the usual get-to-know-you questions. So, when someone asked if I had children, which they often did, I told the absolute, honest truth: “Yes, I have a daughter, but she died [X amount of time] ago.” I couldn’t not respond in that way.

But over time, I realized that this kind of truth—this traumatic truth—wasn’t always welcome or perhaps even appropriate. I discovered how quickly telling my story in this way could instantaneously create discomfort in a conversation or shut it down entirely. I also learned the hard way that not everyone is deserving of that sacred part of my story. I discovered that certain responses could cause fresh pain in a tender place.

So, as part of my healing, my way of answering and telling my story changed over the years. Now, when meeting someone new and being asked a similar question about children, I tend to say, “I have two sons who are ten and thirteen.” Which is true. And also half-true. A half-truth told not to deceive but to protect.

But this has been one of the hardest areas for me to navigate as a bereaved mother whose child is no longer physically alive and present with me. I want to be true to myself, my story, and my daughter—while also protecting my heart and my daughter’s memory. Is it dishonoring not to mention her? Sometimes, I wonder if it is. I still wrestle with this and other questions.

As I reflected on Oprah’s conversation with Amy Griffin and my own experience, a question surfaced in me:

Whose comfort are we protecting? Who are we protecting?

Especially when it comes to telling our stories—particularly the ones shaped by trauma or grief.