Expressive Writing Paradigm

Writing, especially expressive writing, is known to have therapeutic effects on mental and physical health. Pioneered by James Pennebaker, the benefits and positive effects of expressive writing on stress management, mental health, and some systemic diseases have been noted for over two decades.  

In the early 1980s, Pennebaker discovered that keeping one’s trauma secret— holding back powerful emotions, thoughts, and behaviors caused low-level long-term stress, often leading to the dysfunction of one’s immune system and poor physical and mental health. These studies led the way to open the path to the expressive writing paradigm.

Professionals in the fields of medicine, social work, and psychotherapy have widely applied this concept as a healing tool.

How Did I Begin Writing in Grief?

Though I had a very intensive period of writing when I was young from teens to early twenties, I hadn’t written anything substantial until I lost my husband, Patrick to stage IV metastatic melanoma of the brain, in the summer of 2016.

Patrick was not only my husband but also my partner, and best friend of 26 and a half years. Before his passing, we’d been on the fastest roller coaster ride and fought the fierce battles against cancer for three years. When he died, I felt nothing was left with me, like I had been thrown into the darkest valley, unable to see its bottom.

Lost, I turned to writing to try to process the gravity of the grief I felt. I held some doubts and questions over what had happened before his death, which were tormenting me, so the drive and force for writing was unyielding and explosive. I needed to release all the emotions and the impact of his illness, death, and things that I’d experienced before his illness.

When I began writing, I wrote about any unanswered questions and emotions around specific memories. I cried over specific memories of our days together. I spent almost all day and nights intensively writing and then completed the “incomplete” version of the first draft in just a few months. But, it still had lots of hidden secrets and things that I couldn’t face or speak of aloud. During this earlier period of writing, I could heal a little but not as much as I wanted to heal.

How Did The Healing Take Place?

The first several months of free writing were very much needed to release my emotions and trapped electric charges inside my brain and the heart. However, after this period I knew that my writing would have to dig deeper to uncover the deeply embedded trauma and secrets within.

Finally, at the end of 2019 with much hope, my writing became a book, and I began to take a couple of consecutive six-month memoir writing courses.

During these courses, a writing coach sometimes asked questions about the areas that I deliberately hid, because of the pain associated with the events. Though difficult, I decided to be open and vulnerable to my pains, and risk myself for the chance to heal.

As I agreed to be vulnerable, many moments of awakening began to occur during my writing. At the time, I’d been a devout Buddhist for almost two decades. In my spiritual practice, I perform the six paramita practices which are: offering, discipline, perseverance, diligent practice, meditation, and wisdom throughout the day and night. To visit the hidden experiences and excavate more truths, I needed these spiritual principles to support my writing, so I became more disciplined, tenacious, resilient, and meditative in writing.  

Once writing became one of my spiritual practices, I persevered and became more patient with myself. I practiced self-care and self-love while I faced the most difficult events, which accompanied a lot of pain and agonizing discomfort.

During such a period of writing, some writers may experience re-traumatization from past events and memories. I’d also got through many of these crucial times, but I knew the healing that I’d wanted would happen by finding my true ground, not by taking more time to ease my pain. So, I’d chosen to surrender myself to the facts and accept whatever happened as my reality.

Finally, during the second round of the writing course, I found myself surrounded by more light shining through what I thought was once just rubble.

Conclusion

From my own writing experience, the initial healing occurs when our minds are open to allow for the release of pain and emotions. However, it is also important to push through to the next step.

The real healing comes when we realign ourselves to see the pain and discomfort not as a victim of the tragedies but as good survivors of the difficult experiences. In the latter writing, our words become lifted and more universal and relatable stories.

In this way, writing becomes not only a way for us to heal, but also to heal anyone in the world.

The healing power of writing can heal us beyond time and space, in the now.

Kyomi O’Connor is the author of memoir, A Sky of Infinite Blue- A Japanese Immigrant Search for Home and Self. After three years of intense caregiving, she lost her husband, partner, and best friend, Patrick, of 26 and a half years to stage IV metastatic melanoma in his brain. In her grieving, Kyomi began her writing. Soon, as she’d already been a devout Buddhist, writing became one of the fiercest spiritual practices she’d undertaken. In the end, the light was found everywhere in the rubbles once she thought she’d been lost in. Please visit her website, https://kyomioconnor.com.
You can find her on her website or follow her on Instagram and Twitter.

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Confronting the Past

My story begins with the sudden death of my brother, Lawrence. He was twenty-three at the time; I was fourteen. He had been my True North and all at once I was catapulted into the world without a compass. Shortly after his accident, I became a Christian and found hope and a path forward. 

A few years later, I graduated high school, moved away from home, and began taking a path of my own. I believed in Jesus, but following Him was a different matter. So off I went, doing my own thing. 

For years. I never lost faith. I believed. I just wanted to do faith my way. And I tried, and failed, time and again.

As I wrote, my memoir began to evolve into the story of my journey back to faith. I stumbled upon dark, painful memories that I had a hard time facing. I’d tell my writing coach that I dread writing this next chapter. I’d procrastinate, take naps, read—anything to avoid writing down the awful things I’d done. 

As I began to remember, I fell into shame. How on earth could I face my past, much less share it with the world?

I’d pray, and finally, type something into a blank Word document. Why am I doing this? Because I must. Still, shame persisted.

The Grip of Shame

I thought I knew a lot about shame. I’d been following Brené Brown’s shame research for several years. I’d read her book, Daring Greatly. I’d even taken her COURAGEworks class, where I spent weeks learning about shame. Brown defines it this way:

“Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging. It derives its power from being unspeakable. If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. . . . Language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.” (Brown, Brené, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead.) 

So I began to push through those painful memories, one sentence, one paragraph, one chapter, at a time. 

I would finish an especially difficult passage and take a few days off. 

A week later, I might stumble on another unpleasant memory and think, “I can’t write this. It’s too embarrassing. What will people think?” Then I’d remind myself that I’d survived the last terrible thing I’d written about. I was still here, sitting in my chair, slowly chipping away at my manuscript. I’d survived.

That’s when something began to change. Not only with my writing, but with me. First, I realized I’d been walking around with baggage I didn’t even know I had. Secondly, I began to see my shame for what it was: something that was keeping me small and afraid. Opening the doors of my memory released that shame and brought it to light, where it could no longer survive. In the process of discovery, shame lost its grip on me. 

The Power of Story

For many years I have been a fan of author and theologian Frederick Buechner. I’d heard him interviewed once about writing his memoir, Telling Secrets, the account of his father’s suicide—and it’s fallout— when Buechner was twelve. 

Quoting a meditation from his novel, The Final Beast, Buechner says, “I walked back through my memory, as though it was a long hall. I asked God to open all the closed doors, and bless whatever he found inside.” 

I’m a visual writer and I was captivated by that imagery. So I did the same.

Each day as I would sit down to write, I would close my eyes and ask God to walk with me down the halls of my memory, open each closed door, and bless whatever was waiting there. When I began asking God to enter with me into my shame, that’s when it not only began to be exposed, but destroyed.

The Gift of Time

What I’d find behind those doors wasn’t always heart-rending. To my surprise, I’d often discover a beautiful memory I’d completely forgotten. A hug from my mother. A moment of childhood bliss. 

This process became the path to my healing; these forgotten memories became gifts. 

“The sad things that happened long ago will always remain part of who we are,” said Buechner, “ … but instead of being a burden of guilt, recrimination, and regret … the saddest things can become … a source of wisdom and strength for the journey that still lies ahead.”

Madeleine L’Engle once said, “I am still all the ages I’ve ever been.” I believe that’s true. All my actions, and their associated memories, are part of me. 

But they are not me. The older, wiser woman who wrote Untethered is not the carefree—and willful—young woman I spent two years writing about. And there is comfort in that. 

We can certainly learn from our past. Writing about mine set me free. 

Tell us in the comments: How have you dealt with difficult emotions, like shame or fear, in your writing?

Laura grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina, the daughter of a journalist and a teacher. She has been an advertising copywriter, newspaper columnist, staff writer for an international relief agency, travel writer, blogger, teacher, communications director for several nonprofits, and personal assistant to a New York Times bestselling author. Laura is passionate about her faith, books, travel, nature (especially the beach), social justice, and her family. 

Her memoir, Untethered: Faith, Failure and Finding Solid Ground publishes on April 5, 2022.

You can find her on her website or follow her on Twitter and Instagram.

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