Writing personal essays isn’t about oversharing — it’s about understanding. Every time I sit down to write, I end up meeting a new version of myself in the reflection. Sometimes he’s brave, sometimes awkward, but always honest. Here’s why I keep returning to the mirror that is personal narrative.
There’s a place in every piece I write when I catch my own reflection in the words — and sometimes it’s startling.
It’s not that I don’t like what I see; it’s that I don’t always recognize him. The guy on the page feels familiar, sure — same sense of humor, same overthinking tendencies, same need for the perfect closing line — but he’s braver than I usually am in real life. He says the quiet parts out loud. He admits things I might only whisper to a close friend (or my dog, Hudson).
That’s the power, the danger, and the reward of personal narrative. It’s a mirror that doesn’t let you look away. Because you’re creating the mirror.
When I started writing essays years ago, I was coping with Ken’s cancer diagnosis and what it meant for him, me and our life together. I’ve always processed my feelings in words—whether it’s pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. The more I wrote, the more I realized every story was actually taking me deeper into questions I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been writing.
Writing became how I think. Not “think” as in plot out ideas neatly with bullet points — more like spill everything onto the page and see what sticks to the truth. Personal narrative is where I make sense of what doesn’t. It’s where I ask questions that don’t have tidy answers and sometimes, where I find the courage to stop pretending I have them.
And yes — sometimes that means circling back to the same story again and again. The loss. The love. The silence that followed. The moment I realized the silence was actually saying something. I used to worry that revisiting the same terrain meant I was stuck. Now I know it just means I’m human — and that the landscape keeps changing every time I walk it.
Every essay I write teaches me something I didn’t know I was ready to learn. Sometimes it’s profound (“grief is love without a place to go”). Sometimes it’s petty (“never write at 2 a.m. while snacking on Doritos on Ambien”). But it’s always true — for me, in that moment. And that’s enough.
So, I keep coming back to personal narrative not because I love the sound of my own voice (though I do have a solid Midwestern accent), but because it’s where I find the version of myself that’s most honest.
The one who’s not trying to be polished or profound — just real. And on the best days, when the words line up just right and the mirror feels clear, I see not just who I was, but who I’m still becoming.
If this reflection resonated with you, you’ll probably enjoy my newsletter, The Writing Life, Rewritten — where I share stories about the creative process, personal essays in progress, and a few behind-the-scenes moments from what’s coming in 2026. Join the journey!