The Future Will Come to Meet you Because you wrote it

Can you rebuild a life word by word?

When I set out to do exactly that last July, my intentions were strictly professional. Not for one minute did I take the intangibles into account beyond the fact that outing myself as mentally ill would stick forever.

Advocacy isn’t a halfhearted commitment, and I quickly understood I wouldn’t be able to recover my writing voice without it.

Trust me, I tried; turning the pen on yourself is deeply counter-intuitive when your profession has always been all about others. But words that skirted around the reason why I was unable to write for five years all sounded phony, empty, and generic.

The moment I chose to embrace radical honesty and document the reality of major depressive disorder, it got easier. Writing felt natural again although I still had to relearn how to do it, a process that is still ongoing.

Like all crafts, writing is a lifelong learning journey.

My goal was to use my own experience to humanize a widespread predicament so no one else would ever see their life stall for years like mine did.

Service is the only way I know to approach writing but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

In journalism, readers might leave you comments or contact you off the page but engaging directly isn’t part of the job. The people side of it is often limited to interviews, reporting, and fact-checking before you file a piece; the relationship side is about keeping in touch with your sources.

Once a piece is published, it’s out of your hands and interactions with readers are rare. Generally, there isn’t enough time, and “never read the comments” has become standard advice. With reason, as they can be vicious.

But in an online hybrid pro/non-pro setting, the internet wants to have a conversation with you.

Reaching just the one person means my job is done.

I strive for writing that’ll resonate with at least one fellow human. Whatever we’re going through, we feel alone but we never are. Whatever the questions we’re asking ourselves in the privacy of our own heads, we’re seldom the only ones wrestling with them. Putting them out there is the best way to figure out answers or ways to cope, with outside input.

As a journalist, I used to start conversations by bringing some facts to the table then walking away without getting personal.

But when you write essays that use your own life as material, being available and open to feedback and advice comes with the territory.

From the good samaritan with eagle eyes who leaves me exacting editing notes because I missed something (Hi, Andrew!) to privates notes, emails, and disagreements in comments, I welcome it all as long as it’s not scathing ad hominem attacks condoning inhumane practices.

When someone takes time out of their day to suggest something that can help me do or be better, I’m always happy to listen. Alas, the current demands of family life and ever-changing geographical coordinates mean I can’t always be as responsive as I’d like, which is a constant source of guilt.

Please know that your presence is helping me navigate very hard times, and I’m endlessly grateful for your support.

Save for my stepmom’s unexpected Stage IV cancer diagnosis, this is exactly how I envisaged the future when I started writing again. I pictured a time when I would be functional and able to reconnect with life and the humans in it while I generated ideas and dreamed up projects.

While I was never explicit about those hopes and dreams, they live between the lines, like a coded message to kindred spirits I haven’t met yet.

Or rather, hadn’t met yet.

Ifwriting is how I’m coming back to life, one essay at a time, it’s only thanks to you.

Yes, you behind the screen.

Words are how we humans come together and writing is invariably hope made manifest. There’s never any guarantee anyone will read what you put out, or that those who do will understand it in the spirit it was written.

When you pour your heart out onto the page to give voice to the unspeakable or expose something, there’s always an element of risk. You never know what fellow humans will make of your work, which is why the only way to go about it is to be as true to yourself as possible.

There can be no genuine human connection otherwise.

Although writing is how I currently support myself, the human element is where true riches lie. Because no amount of money could ever dispel the loneliness that nearly killed me or conjure up the human warmth words on a page drew out of the shadows.

By using the present to document the past, I was able to put the pieces of my identity back together after depression erased me. Doing this is how I eventually found my tribe, kindred spirits who share the same curiosity, values, and dedication that animate me and keep me going.