This piece originally appeared in my friend Lisa Weinert’s Off the Page Substack, a beautiful gathering place where writers share how their creative lives are nourished beyond the page. You can subscribe to her newsletter here. Although the Finding the Voice Within master workshop I led has passed, I’ll be offering a new one in September 2025—stay tuned. 

For over two decades, I’ve worked with writers as an editor, publicist, and mindfulness-based book coach. I’ve learned that a writing life isn’t just about words on the page—it’s shaped by everything we do when we’re not writing. That’s why I created Off the Page: Conversations About Writing as a Practice, where writers share the routines that fuel their creativity—from yoga and meditation to walking, reading, and even Olympic weightlifting. There’s no single path to a writing life—only the one that works for you.

I’m overjoyed to feature bestselling author, editor, book midwife, and beloved Narrative Healing member Nirmala Nataraj in a special conversation below. She’s also guiding us through a live master workshop, Finding the Voice Within—an invitation to step out of overthinking and into the deep well of intuitive discovery.

Step beyond expectation and into the flow of what’s already alive within you. Through guided meditation, writing exercises, and resonance exploration, uncover the stories waiting to be remembered.

Don’t miss this transformative experience! https://www.lisaweinert.com/workshop/

ABOUT: Nirmala Nataraj is a New York-based writer, editor, book midwife, theater artist, and mythmaker. She works at the intersection of storytelling, myth, and collective liberation, helping writers bring their ideas to life.

The author of three bestselling books on space and cosmology, Nirmala has also ghostwritten numerous works in spirituality, memoir, and young adult fiction. As a first-generation South Asian American, she moves fluidly between cultures and art forms, embracing multiple narratives in her creative practice. Her background in activism and counseling informs her approach to storytelling, with a focus on personal and collective transformation.

Committed to dismantling oppressive frameworks, Nirmala believes in the power of words to inspire, challenge, and heal.

Lisa Weinert (LW): How is writing a healing practice?

Nirmala Nataraj (NN): Writing, for me, is both a healing practice and a space where healing sometimes eludes me. There are moments when I write from my scars—those places where healing has already begun, where the pain is now a part of the story, but not the whole story. Writing from scars feels like a quiet, deliberate act of reclaiming power, of creating meaning from what was once raw. But then there are times when I feel the weight of my wounds, and they need to bleed. In those moments, writing becomes a sort of catharsis, like the pen itself is a vessel for the release of something that can’t be held inside anymore. The process of writing through the bleeding feels like an essential part of healing, even when it's messy, uncertain, and not yet understood.

For a while, after my father’s death, I didn’t write. I couldn’t. There was a stillness, a place of deep mourning where the words felt either too heavy or too fleeting. It was as though the waves of grief were too vast, and I couldn’t catch one. But now, writing has returned to me, and with it, the feeling that it’s no longer just for me. Writing has become a channel for communication and connection, a way for me to reach the healing messages I need and want to hear. It feels both primordial—tapping into something ancient and rooted—and proactive, as though I’m actively choosing to move through my grief rather than be swept away by it.

When I journal, I’m in a conversation with myself, my ancestors, and the vast unknown. It’s like a sacred dialogue where I find the answers and questions I didn’t even know I had. And when I write to share, it feels even more powerful. It’s no longer just a solitary experience; it’s an invitation for others to join in the healing, to witness and perhaps find their own healing reflected in the words.

Writing, like healing, ebbs and flows. Sometimes we catch the wave, and sometimes we don’t. There are days when the words come easily, like a soft tide carrying us forward, and other days when the current feels still, and we’re left searching for the rhythm. But even in those moments, there is possibility. Just as healing is unpredictable—sometimes slow, sometimes abrupt, sometimes undulating, sometimes jagged—writing mirrors that dance. It's seldom linear or neat, but it’s a tool that helps me navigate the weirdness of being human. It’s a way of holding space for what is, and in that holding, I find a form of healing, however imperfect it may be.

LW: What is the difference between “traditional writing” and “writing with a healing intention?:

NN: The difference between “traditional writing” and “writing with a healing intention” can be a deeply personal experience, and it’s going to be different for everyone. For me, traditional writing used to mean writing for a very specific audience. There was always a clear purpose, a destination I thought I was heading toward—and a bit of calculated distance from the reader, and if I’m honest, even with myself. But the truth is, almost always, when the writing is flowing, it takes on a life of its own. Whether I’m consciously intending it or not, the process itself becomes a form of healing. Even when there is a more structured intention, the writing has a way of pulling me into places I didn’t expect, revealing things I didn’t know I needed to uncover. For me, this is what it means to be intimate with my writing…it’s to trust it, even though I may not know where it’s flowing.

I think sometimes we can be a bit too precious about writing with a healing intention, as if it must follow a specific method or be done in a very deliberate way to “count” as healing. But for me, I’ve learned to approach writing with the same openness that I bring to my improvisational singing. I come to the page raw, blank, and open, trusting that my moving hand will tell me what I need to know. There’s a quality of surrender in that approach, and for me, surrender is healing. It’s not about forcing the words to work in a certain way or to fit into a preformed mold; it’s about being present to whatever emerges.

I don’t always think of what I’m doing as “traditional writing,” and if it ever feels traditional, it’s because it’s emerged from the seeds of improvisation and openness. It’s like the melody of a song—the initial, raw moments of creation that eventually take shape into something more structured. But it always starts from a place of letting go, of allowing whatever needs to come through to do so without judgment or expectation. For me, that’s where the healing happens. It’s not in forcing a narrative but in trusting the process, the ebb and flow, of what emerges when I open myself to the mystery of the blank page.

LW: What role does movement play in your writing life? Do you return to any somatic practices, mindfulness exercises, or other rituals before or after you write?

NN: Movement plays a huge and sometimes unpredictable role in my writing life. It’s not always something I plan for, but it’s often the thing that unlocks the flow. For me, creative improvisation is at the heart of both movement and writing. Whether I’m singing, dancing, or just moving freely in my body, I find that it opens up space for the words to come. I don’t always need to sit in one place with my pen or laptop to write; sometimes, I’ll take a walk, sway to music, or just let my body move in whatever way feels natural. That’s often when the writing starts to take on a life of its own.

Sometimes, when I’m writing, I’ll even incorporate physical movement directly into the process. I’ll stand, stretch, or move my arms as if I’m conducting an invisible orchestra of words. It’s a playful, almost ritualistic way to engage with the flow of creativity. This kind of embodied presence helps me access a different part of my mind, one that isn’t bound by logic or expectations but is free to explore and improvise. And in that freedom, the writing becomes a joyful practice, just like a dance or a song.

Breath is another key player in my process. I return to it often, especially when I’m feeling blocked or disconnected. Before or after writing, I’ll take a few moments to center myself with deep, intentional breaths. It’s not just about finding the words—it’s about creating a space where they can emerge naturally, like a dance between the body, the breath, and the page.

In my process, I also bring the sacred into daily access. For me, the act of writing and moving is not just about creating; it’s about engaging with something much larger. I don’t view writing as a purely intellectual act but as a sacred exchange, a channel for something divine to flow through. Whether I’m moving, breathing, or writing, I approach it as a ritual, an opportunity to connect with the sacred in the midst of the ordinary. This practice isn’t reserved for specific moments; it’s something I try to weave into my daily life, acknowledging that even the most mundane actions can be portals to something profound.

LW: What role does meditation play in your creative life?

NN: Meditation plays a deeply foundational role in my creative life. As a mindfulness teacher, meditation is a huge part of my work and my daily practice. It's not just a tool for stillness; it’s a space where creativity can emerge, often in unexpected ways. I’ve written entire manuscripts as free-write responses to long periods of meditation. The stillness of the mind, the quieting of the thinking brain, allows the words to flow more freely, unburdened by judgment or expectations.

One of the practices I’ve developed is my Going Into the Void weekends, which initially frightened me. Going into the Void refers to a practice I developed of stepping into a space of complete unstructured time, where there are no specific goals, obligations, or distractions. It’s a state of surrender, where I release my usual mental patterns and allow myself to simply be without any external agenda. In the past, this unstructured time felt uncomfortable or even frightening, as it involves letting go of control and moving beyond the grip of my thinking mind. But now, I see this time as a form of meditation, a way of releasing the grip of my thoughts and stepping into a space of possibility. Thoughts don’t disappear during these times; they scatter like beads falling from a necklace, and I can see them for what they are—just thoughts. There’s freedom in that. I’m no longer trapped by them, and I’m able to observe them without clinging to them. This practice unburdens me from the constant noise and allows me to reconnect with the present moment. It also offers a much-needed respite from technology.

In our modern attention economy, I believe meditation is a radical act of reclaiming our attention—choosing to direct it consciously rather than being pulled in a thousand different directions. Meditation can look like anything, though. For me, sometimes it means going into my dark closet, a small sanctuary where I can sit in stillness. Other times, it’s staring out at my snowy lawn, letting the quietness of nature seep in. It can also look like singing and dancing wildly in my office, or even baying at the moon under the night sky. Sometimes, it’s simply letting my cup of tea go cold as I let go of everything else, completely immersed in the moment.

Meditation isn’t always about silence or stillness; sometimes it’s a dynamic, embodied experience that opens up space for the creative energy to flow. When I connect with that space, creativity is no longer something I chase—it’s something I meet in the mystery, and from there, it unfolds naturally.

LW: Where do you find inspiration?

NN: Inspiration is all around me, often in the most unexpected places. I’ve always been attuned to synchronicities—the way seemingly random events or moments align in a way that feels too perfect to be coincidental. Whether it’s catching a snatch of dialogue in a crowded cafe or noticing something that feels out of place, like a lone bird singing at the wrong time of day, these moments often spark something in me. I pay attention to these oddities because they speak to a deeper truth that others might miss.

I’m highly animistic, so nature is a constant source of inspiration. I talk to trees, stones, and animals, and they often talk back in the form of subtle signs or visceral sensations. The natural world has a way of communicating that feels remarkably direct, compared to people! I also find inspiration in systems thinking—connecting ideas, disciplines, and people from vastly different areas of expertise. There’s something magical about weaving these threads together, creating something new from unexpected sources.

Tarot is another key tool I use to access the unseen realms. It’s a direct channel to the great mystery, offering insights that often feel like I’m having tea with the divine. But honestly, anything can spark inspiration for me. It’s often the small, seemingly inconsequential things that turn out to be the most epic. A random stranger might inspire a sketch, a poem, or even the seed of a future novel. I’ve coined the term the Big Wow Now effect to describe those moments when something, no matter how small, moves me on a visceral level. It’s a deep, immediate feeling of being captured by something—an idea, a moment, a word—that feels significant beyond its surface. That’s where the magic happens for me. I stay open to everything, because inspiration is never confined to one place or one moment—it’s everywhere.

LW: How has sharing your work changed your life?

NN: Sharing my work has been a continuous, evolving process. It’s still uncomfortable at times, even though I’ve found ways to open up my voice in spaces where I hold more authority, like teaching and leading my meditation/writing community, the Infinite Field. I run a business offering editing and collaborative writing services, and I have a newsletter, but my personal voice, my raw creativity, remains something I’m still learning to share fully. There’s a certain shyness that lingers, especially when I think about exposing something that feels deeply personal, even though I teach others how to express themselves.

I recently saw a performance where a dancer spoke about the power of standing behind her work, of giving herself credit for her voice. It hit me deeply. To be creative is to step into a contract with the world—offering something of yourself, something that carries the energy of the beyond. Artists and writers bring something intangible into the world, and in that act of transmission, there is a sacred responsibility. I’m learning to step into that, to allow myself to be a wholehearted custodian of my voice and the work that comes through me.

The most profound shift has come from hearing from others—when someone lets me know that something I’ve written or shared has changed them on a fundamental level. That’s when I realize the writing isn’t just for me; it’s for anyone who needs it, for anyone who can benefit from it. It’s not always easy, but learning to see my work as an offering, even when my voice is shaking and I have no idea who’s going to be in the audience, has made it feel more holy. It’s not just about creating; it’s about sharing that creation in a way that connects us all, a realization that’s both humbling and empowering.

LW: What writers have influenced you the most?

NN: My writing is deeply influenced by those who write from the liminal spaces, who dare to explore the edges of human experience and identity. Gloria Anzaldúa, Audre Lorde, Joan Didion, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Octavia Butler have all shaped my understanding of storytelling as a means to challenge, transform, and transcend boundaries. I see all of them as prophets of consciousness. They write from places of resistance, spiritual depth, and profound empathy, and their work teaches me to see beyond what’s immediately visible—whether it’s the struggle for identities large enough to hold on to, the complexity of living within cultures in a time of systems collapse, or the possibilities that might be whispering to us from the ancestral or archetypal realms.

Ta-Nehisi Coates also resonates deeply with me right—his ability to write the truth of history (and right freaking now!) with such clarity, while simultaneously offering a path toward a more just and compassionate future, is a powerful lesson. It’s the kind of writing that doesn’t just reflect reality; it demands change.

I find myself equally inspired by writers like Robin Wall Kimmerer and Zenju Earthlyn Manuel, whose work brings a spiritual and elemental lens to how we engage with the world. Kimmerer’s deep connection to nature and her ability to speak to the land as a living being is something that infuses my own writing, especially as I draw from the animistic worldview I hold so dear. Zenju Earthlyn Manuel’s teachings on mindfulness, spirituality, and living with tenderness and receptivity to mystery also guide me, particularly in how to approach life with reverence and attention to the present moment.

Then there are the spiritual and philosophical teachers—like Simone Weil, James Hillman, and Jeffrey Kripal—whose explorations into consciousness, the unseen, and the sacred have influenced my approach to creativity. Spiritual writings that challenge the conventional, that invite us to witness the full spectrum of human experience, are a major influence. I’m also drawn to elemental stories—old legends and fairy tales, as well as timeless yarns made timely. These stories speak to me because they bridge the gap between past and present, showing how ancient wisdom is still alive and relevant today.

I also read a lot that makes me uncomfortable, because I believe that discomfort is where growth happens. The act of bearing witness, of seeing what others might overlook or choose to ignore, is central to my writing and my life. Whether it’s from fiction, non-fiction, or spiritual texts, these writers help me understand that the act of creation is both personal and universal. My influences are as varied as the voices in the world, but they all teach me to see beyond the surface, to listen to the spaces between words, and to trust the process of bringing something unseen into being.

LW: What book are you excited to read next?

NN: I’m really drawn to the idea of sitting down with a book of short stories by Angela Carter. Her work is the perfect accompaniment to the winter season—when the world outside is blanketed in snow, and the quiet darkness invites introspection. It makes me think of wolves prowling through the woods and bears hibernating in their dens, a time of stillness but also of sensuality and danger lurking just beneath the surface. There’s something primal and mysterious about her stories that taps into the sometimes unspeakable truths of coming-of-age experiences—but her fairy tales take on a darker, more adult edge. Carter’s work feels like a journey into the unknown, uncovering secrets that are both enchanting and unsettling at once.

LW: Is there anything else you’d like us to know?

I want people to know that anything can be writing. Don’t be afraid to start with nonsense, or gibberish—sometimes that’s exactly where the magic begins. As a child, I used to write from that place of freedom and play, just letting my thoughts spill out without judgment. Sing, improvise, be silly. Talk through your ideas with friends, write with your nondominant hand, make it fun. There’s a wild creativity that comes from embracing the spontaneous, the unrefined, the doesn’t-have-to-be-a-certain-way.

I also believe in the power of paying attention. There’s poetry in the mundane. Listen to the conversations on public transportation or in the grocery store, and you’ll hear the rhythms of life, the beauty of human connection, the subtle enchantment of everyday musings. Inspiration comes when you breathe in the world around you, when you allow yourself to be filled with it. Curiosity is a key ingredient—talk to different people, see live theatre and music, go to museums, explore the arts.

On a deeper level, though, I feel a political urgency in creativity, especially now. We live in a world where we are encouraged to repress our better instincts and to become compliant, unquestioning consumers. But creativity, in any form, is a rebellion against that kind of enforced normalcy. Even when you’re gathering with friends, you can create—whether it’s through conversation, art, or shared imagination. To be playful with your ideas is how we define new worlds, how we demand more for ourselves, and how we establish a place where justice and beauty reign. Creativity isn’t just personal—it’s collective, and it’s revolutionary. It’s the act of giving voice to what’s possible, even when the world around us may seem to resist it.

(This story was originally published on Women For One.)

I am one of those women you sometimes hear about in urban legends: the kind that doesn’t want children. I’m 37 years old, and ever since I started to express my nascent opinion that changing diapers and dealing with the tantrums of a diminutive tyrant was not my idea of a life well-lived, I got the stock response from the adults around me: “Well…you’re still young. You’ll change your mind.” This always struck me as mysterious. After all, why would I change my mind about something I felt so passionately about?

Fast-forward about three decades. I still haven’t changed my mind, and although my declarations have been softened by tact and a teeny bit of guilt (after all, who doesn’t love babies, right?), I am set in my opinion that raising children is a perfectly noble enterprise—and one I was NOT born to do.

If I have a maternal instinct at all, it’s buried under a mountain of sarcasm and the kind of clearly-not-childproofed lifestyle that comes from an intentionally unstructured schedule.

My earliest visions of my life included lots of adventure, friends and lovers galore, and the kind of leisure time most harried moms would give their firstborn in exchange for. Sure, I’ve been pegged as irresponsible for admitting to my desire to live a life free from (what I perceive to be) the hellacious burden of childrearing. I’ve been viewed as incapable of caring for others in a meaningful way (as if being a mom were the only method of expressing one’s love and goodwill). I’ve been told that I will regret this decision years from now (because, apparently, to replicate my DNA or spend copious amounts of time discussing my child’s eating and potty-training habits is the alpha and omega of a purpose-driven life).

And yes, obviously I know that there is more to motherhood than the aforementioned, but honestly, the great stuff—such as steering a living being through his or her unique hurdles and standing back to admire the results—still doesn’t sway me. I’ve made plenty of decisions that have prompted the great “What if…” and have even led me to regret the path I inevitably took. Not choosing motherhood has never been one of them.

All joking aside, a woman who openly expresses aversion to all things maternal will probably not score many points, even among the most liberal-minded. And if she is openly sexual, she will be seen as especially monstrous. In general, when women express their sexuality in a way that stands outside and beyond their “obvious” procreative functions, they are demonized. Sex as recreation rather than procreation is fine and all, but there is still the implicit notion that it must ultimately be channeled into motherhood.

We can’t lay the onus of the blame on men. As women, we still place higher value on those who are mothers. We still strip ourselves of any significant value when we are not mothers. We still see ourselves as defective, less than, and unfeminine when we do not fulfill this most prescriptive of socially imposed functions. We still reduce ourselves to the utility of our uterus.

While I have no intention of becoming a mother, I recognize that motherhood is shrouded in ambivalence, which makes it a role I can certainly sympathize with—at least in part. In our culture, the role of mother has either been upheld as the utmost standard of femininity, or it has been devalued to the point of being laughable—another feminine caricature that brings to mind emasculated mama’s boys and the cutting remarks of the cool-as-a-cucumber maternal monster who so often arises in therapists’ offices.

So, as you can see, all of this complicates the archetype of the Mother with a capital M, which I’d like to discuss. Typically, the feminine archetypes I’ve been drawn to seem to exist as counterpoints to maternity. They are warriors, rebels, witches—women who exist on the outskirts of social norms. But this is only true at first glance. Even the fierce Hindu goddess Kali, in one memorable myth, ceases her action on the battlefield to suckle a crying infant at her breast.

All of this makes me curious about the possibility of reclaiming the Mother archetype in such a way that enables me to make peace with my decision to not be a mother. This is an important step, because archetypes are symbolic rather than literal representations. Even if I’m not a mother in the traditional sense, this doesn’t mean that the Mother archetype cannot be relevant to me. Although we live in a culture that is in danger of either neglecting or inflating the Mother archetype, a more balanced, nuanced perspective could offer alternatives that are otherwise difficult to see, much less acknowledge.

Like an individual, an archetype always encompasses a spectrum of attitudes and behaviors. In looking at the Mother archetype, we can see the existence of the Nurturing Mother (characterized by fertility goddesses such as Isis or Astarte, or beacons of devoted maternity like the “Virgin” Mary) and the Ferocious Mother (innate in deities such as Kali, who may be as likely to suckle you at her breast as she is to bite off your head). Often, the Nurturing Mother is perfectly capable of changing on a dime and becoming the Ferocious Mother. Perhaps the ability of the Mother to encompass contradiction so elegantly is what makes her such a controversial figure in the human psyche. In one moment, she’s “too stifling” and in another, she’s “too cold and distant.”

Unlike the Father, whose presence tends to be less bogged down in polarities and more in our attitudes toward authority in general, the Mother dredges up all sorts of inconvenient feelings within us. Our frustration and inability to see ourselves as complex beings with hard-to-figure-out emotions can often cause us to project this messiness onto our real-life mothers and the concept of maternity in general. When we cannot accept our seeming contradictions as two sides of the same coin, our inability to integrate these varied parts of ourselves can leave us feeling like victims of the Great Universal Mother—not to mention our own mothers, who may be the most significant accomplices to our trauma.

I believe that reclaiming the Mother archetype (especially among those of us who don’t identify as literal mothers) means coming to terms with our own perceptions of femininity and motherhood, as well as the personal disappointments and prickly burrs in our side that have informed how we perceive and value motherhood. I also believe that until we view motherhood not merely as a function of the body but as a function of the soul—which continuously births itself into a universe that is both benevolent and hostile—we will always harbor an uneasy attitude toward motherhood.

To reclaim the Mother is to acknowledge her complexity—it is to accord her the power of full expression, whether this be through her desire and sexuality, through her unconditional love of her offspring, through her shadow qualities of manipulation and power plays, through her activities and passions that exist independent of her children, and through the many ways in which she fails and surprises us.

To reclaim the Mother is to see ourselves in this vision simultaneously. It is to recognize the “good” and “bad” aspects of the devoted stay-at-home mom, as well as the fairy-tale crone at the edge of town—who devours small children and sets enterprising young boys and girls out on a path to discover a world that is much larger, much more formidable than their own parents might have taught them.

For me, the true maternal instinct is that upwelling of deep love that exists at the crossroads between life and death. To be a mother is to be the gateway of creation, but it is also to bring our children into a world that includes death and sorrow. To mother is to rush into the blind optimism of our creativity, even though the efforts and the outcome may be full of struggles and uncertainty. It is to forego comfort and sacrifice what we’ve always known for a vision that is much larger than who we think we are. It is to make room for something else to exist. And it is to take ultimate responsibility for that “something else” to exist.

In viewing the maternal instinct in this larger context of creation, I have a larger playing field for my own expression of this instinct. Motherhood doesn’t have to be a one-dimensional ideal that only speaks to those women who are drawn to birthing babies and kissing the boo-boos away.

While I’ve chosen to say no to the cultural baggage that weighs motherhood down, I am an aunt. And we desperately need aunts—especially since so many mothers are overburdened by responsibilities, some that are par for the course and some that are simply unreasonable. To take on the responsibility of aunthood is to offer the kind of love that once freed mothers from their daunting obligations and connected them to a larger support system of friends and family. It is to acknowledge the full and complex spectrum of femininity (and even of maternity), which also encompasses fierce love, sisterhood, and self-care.

Granted, I’m never going to be a matriarch or a caretaker; these aspects of the Mother archetype are just not in my nature. But I can be a loyal aunt, a loving sister, and a creatrix. One of my favorite archetypes, the Witch—who exists on the cusp between the known and the unknown worlds—is not simply a creator but also a steward. The ones who literally mother us may bring us into life, but perhaps we also need the ones who ruthlessly birth us into who we truly are and who we are capable of becoming. And maybe we need the latter to remind us that, while the maternal instinct is more multifaceted than we often acknowledge, many of us won’t be returning to the village to fulfill our “duty” anytime soon. And that, too, is perfectly acceptable.

(This story was originally published on Women For One.)

Hi, I’m Nirmala, and I’m the Editor and Content Alchemist here at Women For One! I believe that women’s stories shape the landscape of the human soul, and I see myself as more of a gardener than a traditional editor. One of my gifts is that I recognize the innate beauty in people’s unique words, and I find a way to cultivate those words so that lots of people get to enjoy them. And from what I’ve experienced, our Truthteller stories are part of a soul-nourishing garden of words that people want to come back to, over and over again.

This is the first in an ongoing column that will offer seasoned and aspiring Truthtellers tips on how to create compelling submissions and become more comfortable sharing your work through the written medium. Whether cranking out your thoughts in the form of stories is second nature for you, or the image of a blank screen makes your palms sweat, I hope you’ll find insight in what I’ll be sharing.

We get a lot of questions at Women For One about the types of stories we accept. Do they have to be happy? Sad? Instructive? Inspirational? Often, women who think about submitting hem and haw over the details of their own personal story. “My life is pretty mundane,” they say. “I haven’t experienced any great losses or major successes. I’m still a work in progress. What could I possibly have to share with the Wf1 community?”

My answer? More than you could possibly know!

There are as many stories as there are women. And, as women, we learn and grow in spades when we are exposed to each other’s stories. Other women’s words—funny, earnest, sassy, wise, poetic—help to water our own garden of wisdom, and every time we share our own, we offer the same vital nutrients to people who are on different but parallel journeys.

But how do you share your story if you don’t know exactly what it is? Here are my top tips.

Start with the moments that stand out. Life is a collection of moments, some of which dazzle us with vivid detail and others of which play like the faintest music in the background of our memories. It is only when we capture these moments and give them a sense of coherence that we are able to make sense of our lives.

That’s why I love the act of storytelling—it brings our memories alive in the present moment and allows us to contemplate the experiences that have been most meaningful to us…as well as the things we didn’t even realize were meaningful until we attempted to describe them.

So, what are the moments that most stand out to you? Take some time to jot them down if you can. They might not necessarily seem connected to a larger story, but I promise that they are. For example, that one vivid night I stayed awake for hours alone on a beach in Hawaii is a time I can now recognize as the beginning of the end of my first major relationship. The story about how my current partner pulled a tiny spider out of my hair on our first date still summons laughter and groans when we tell it to others. And the experience of thumbing through first-edition volumes of Dylan Thomas poetry in a used bookstore in Berkeley makes me think of the one perfect summer of my life, and the first time I fell in love.

By the way, do you notice a recurring theme in these memories? Partnership is a vital aspect of my personal life, at least with respect to where I am and what tends to occupy my mental and emotional space the most. Remember, what captures your interest says A LOT about who you are and what’s important to you in this moment—so watch for the motifs.

Stories themselves are connected to moments that are strung together to create a clear beginning, middle, and end. So even if you don’t know what your particular story is, identify the moments that touch you to the core of your soul…and I guarantee that the story will reveal itself.

Be specific. As a writer, I like to stress the fact that great writing emerges from the details. As we explore in our online program, Truthteller: A Course for Boldly Claiming Your Story, the details of a story are the ingredients that allow the recipe to hang together and create a distinct flavor. Beautiful storytelling captures our senses, and it’s easier than you might think.

Again, once you’ve identified the moments that stand out, hone in on the details: The smell of lilacs that spring night you decided you were going to move across the country to be with your beloved. The deep blue of your baby’s eyes when you saw them for the first time. The song that was playing on the radio as you painted the walls of your first apartment.

In other words, slow down and give your reader the opportunity to take in the scenery. This is what can turn a seemingly minor memory into an epic journey. It’s showing vs. telling. It’s offering us a visceral glimpse into your unique perspective vs. simply giving us the CliffsNotes version.

Honor your journey. This means never qualifying your story with a disclaimer or the notion that it’s not really a big deal. Trust me, it is. Your work in progress is beautiful precisely because it is YOURS. Your story is meaningful because you lived it. Your unique voice is the result of countless experiences, and it takes a brave soul to capture those experiences in words and readily share them with others.

There is no need to compare your journey to anyone else’s or deem it too big, small, happy, or sad in comparison. The golden nuggets that others will appreciate come not from what happened to you but from the value you extracted. (Note: If you end up submitting to Wf1, please mention what that value is for you! How did you grow as a result of your experience?)

The world is made up of stories, and the idea that they need to be harrowing tales of love and loss or globetrotting personal-development adventures in order to be considered worthy of anyone’s time is a fiction. It’s also not true that you have to consider yourself a “writer” in order to share your story! Wf1 is for all women, from every background imaginable. Whoever you are, you are in good company. And your story will be treated with the respect it deserves.

The only thing that sets a Truthteller apart is her awareness. What brings us closer to the truth is our willingness to observe the small and large moments of our lives, and weave those into the tapestry of our being. Stitched into the tapestry of YOU is a collection of remarkable stories—some of them intimately simple, and others so vast they can barely be contained. The great thing is that you have an entire lifetime to tell each and every one of them. So why not start somewhere?

What do you think makes a good story? Are there any other tips you’d appreciate when it comes to becoming the best Truthteller you can be? Email me at nirmala@womenforone.com and let me know.