When the Story Is Ready to Be Told
We all have stories within us that need to be told.
Some stories carry their own force, as if they want to burst out of you. Others feel quieter—slowly metabolizing and integrating until they’re ready to be shared, once the healing has had its time. And some stories need to be told in order to heal.
Writing my chapter for the new anthology Stories of Friends and Family Lost has been a cathartic and, surprisingly, challenging experience. So often, we only see the polished final product of an author’s writing, and we have no idea what they went through to bear their soul and share it with the world.
The Writing That Was Meant Just for Me
I’ve wanted to share Noah’s story in this way since he died over 17 years ago. I started writing it shortly after his death, when Hannah was just six months old—putting down on paper my raw, unfiltered, undigested grief. At the time, it was an essential part of my healing. To write the words. To read them back and feel again the depths of my suffering. To make it real that he was gone. To remember and relive the painful memories—and the beautiful moments—of Noah’s life and death.
When I read those early writings now, it all comes rushing back. I can still feel the intensity of my pain as I furiously wrote, trying to get the story out of my body so I could find some relief.
What I needed most was for Noah to be remembered. So, I began to write.
Back then, I was so consumed by my own pain that the writing was really just for me—to heal myself. I had a desperate need to create something beautiful out of losing him, and to ensure that his life and death were not forgotten. I hated when people avoided talking about him or flinched at the sound of his name. Even my own family struggled to speak of him, because they didn’t know how to deal with their grief—let alone mine and Brian’s. It was so painful. What I needed most was for Noah to be remembered. So, I began to write.
Looking back now, I see that I was still too deep in the emotions—too much in shock—to offer anything beyond my raw vulnerability. The writing didn’t yet carry the wisdom that comes from living through the aftermath—the love, the learning, the self-discovery that slowly emerged over time.
The Chapter I Wasn’t Sure I’d Ever Write
After founding the Grief Support Network, I found another way to keep Noah’s memory alive and to create meaning from his death. With that, I put the book down for another time.
Since then, I’ve thought on and off about writing a memoir. But the time never felt quite right. First, there was the nonprofit to run. Then, Layla was born, and I was raising two young kids while trying to grow a business. As they got older, they needed me in new ways. Then I founded the Center for Somatic Grieving and began traveling more to lead retreats and trainings. And then... life just kept going. I realized there was never going to be the perfect space or ideal moment to write my story.
And then, out of nowhere, an opportunity to share my story as part of an anthology on loss literally landed in my lap. I said yes without hesitation. The time had come for me to dip my toes into these waters—to see what it would feel like.
At first, I felt confident. I’d been telling a version of this story for years—to support the Grief Support Network, and in every grief circle I facilitated. I knew the story in my bones. It felt like no big deal to just write it down, publish it, and share it on a broader scale.
Well, I was wrong in so many ways.
Well, I was wrong in so many ways. After all these years, remembering and reliving Noah’s death still brings me to my knees.
Remembering Noah in Costa Rica
My first take at writing this chapter poured out of me while I was in Costa Rica this February on a surf trip with my older daughter, Hannah. I spent the afternoons sitting in a hammock, pleasantly exhausted from a morning of surfing, and just allowed my story to flow. This was the first time I was writing down the details of how Noah died. For years, I’ve shared what came out of losing him—who I became as a result—but it wasn’t until that moment that I felt ready to share the truth and trauma of his death.
I was a little weepy as I wrote, but I felt integrated and strong in my current life. In some ways, I was just telling the story—not feeling it.
This doesn’t feel safe. I don’t want to do it.
On the plane ride home from Costa Rica, I was furiously typing, trying to meet the upcoming deadline to submit my chapter to the publisher. Hannah was sleeping on my shoulder. She woke up, opened her eyes, and glanced at my screen—right at the part where Noah was dying and I was on the floor next to him, begging him to stay. I felt her body constrict—a small gasp escaped her lips. I saw the pain in her eyes. After that, I closed the computer and said to myself, There is no fucking way I’m sharing these intimate details. No way. This doesn’t feel safe. I don’t want to do it.
Letting People Feel Me
When I got home, I regrouped and decided to take out the part about how he died and focus on the beauty that came out of losing him. This has always been my angle. I never wanted to be pitied or for people to see Noah as anything other than my perfect, beautiful boy. I never shared publicly that Noah had congenital kyphosis and had to undergo a terrifying spinal surgery to prevent paralysis. I never shared that I lived in fear for the last two months of his life—that he might spend his life in a wheelchair, that he might never grow taller than 5’1”, and that, deep inside, I knew he was going to die.
A week before the draft was due, I shared it with my parents and sister. My parents cried and expressed their love and pride for what I had written. My sister Stef, who is an actor and playwright in LA, called me right away and gave me some real, lovingly honest feedback. She said all the niceties about how well it was written—and then said, simply, that this was just another version of the marketing pitch I’d been giving since I founded the Grief Support Network. I was sharing all of the beauty that comes out of loss without giving my audience access to the raw, heartbreaking details of what I had lived through.
She told me straight up that I had to let people into my own loss—so they could relate to me.
She told me straight up that I had to let people into my own loss—so they could relate to me, touch that place within themselves, and understand the transformation that is possible after loss. But first, they had to feel me.
On that same call, I read her the paragraphs I had taken out—the details of Noah’s death. Through her tears, she simply said: This is your story. This is what will touch your readers. She then went into editor mode and suggested I begin the story with Noah’s funeral and go from there.
For the next week, I spent day and night in the Google Doc with my sister and both of my parents, editing and refining the story. What a beautiful collaboration it was for our family. We cried together. Remembered together. Rewrote many versions, with parts we put aside for the future—when I will write my memoir. The purpose of this chapter was to give a taste of my story, and to leave readers eager for more.
The Story in My Body
The final version of this chapter—I feel very proud of. It’s a small slice of what I have to share. After receiving advice from a friend and fellow author/yoga teacher, I recorded myself reading my story and began listening to it during my morning runs.
Holy shit, has this been cathartic.
It feels almost like giving myself an EMDR session—with the bilateral movement of my arms and legs, taking in my story, and having spontaneous moments of release through tears, screams, gasps, and raw emotion that come up each time. It’s been therapeutic for sure—but I also feel like I’m being transported back in time and reliving my trauma.
At this moment, as I prepare for the launch of the book, I feel nauseous, anxious, and unsteady. Every time I think about it, I cry. My tears are right on the surface. This Mother’s Day, I woke up feeling so sad—like I was right back in the Pit, as my mom would say, feeling the heaviness of my grief like it was yesterday.
Writing this chapter has brought me to new layers of grieving and healing. I’ve cultivated acceptance over the years and healed what came to the surface for me to be with and release. I didn’t know until now that the layers are relentless. At times, I feel stuck in my story. There’s a lot for me to learn about how to be in a writing process without being consumed. I’m a novice writer, and I’m questioning if this is the path for me.
Do I have what it takes to write my whole story? Can I handle digging up all of the memories and details I’ve been waiting and wanting to share for so many years?
The truth is—I don’t actually know the answers to these questions yet. I’m simply trying it on to see how it feels.
What I have learned so far is that writing the story isn’t the hard part for me. My anxiety lies in sharing my story—and feeling worthy enough to ask others to read it.
This path is not for the faint of heart.
I have mad respect for all of the authors out there who vulnerably share their truth. This path is not for the faint of heart. I’m doing my best to move slowly, listen to my body, and let go of what others will think of me after reading this.
An unexpected gem of this experience has been discovering that what I love most is listening to other people’s stories—and reflecting their resilience, strength, and courage in sharing them.
Stay tuned for a podcast coming soon that will emerge from this experience—of sharing my story and offering others a platform to share theirs, too.
Thank You for Reading
If this story resonates with you, I invite you to read Stories of Friends and Family Lost. It’s a collection of honest, human stories from those who have lived deep grief — and are learning how to live forward.
With love and reverence,
