The Stories That Heal Us
The first time I wrote about Luke, I didn’t know I was doing something that was saving me. Late in Jeannie’s pregnancy, we went to a routine check-up with a local high-risk OB. We were expecting nothing more than reassurance that everything was fine, maybe even talking about when to pack a hospital bag.
But during the ultrasound, the doctor’s face shifted. His voice grew serious as he explained that something was very wrong with our baby’s brain. Luke had a rare and dangerous malformation of the veins deep inside his skull. In all his years of practice, the doctor had never seen anything like it outside of a textbook.
Then came the words that left us reeling: there was no one he knew of, anywhere near us, who could help. We left his office dumbfounded, our whole world suddenly upside down. That night, instead of sleeping, I sat with my laptop, desperately searching for answers. After hours of frantic research, I found three of the top specialists in the world for Luke’s condition. By the next day, all three had called me back. Within forty-eight hours, we were on a plane to New York City to meet the surgeon who would operate on our son.
Luke needed two eight-hour brain surgeries within his first two days of life just to survive. We spent weeks in the NICU, watching monitors, learning to read every beep and alarm, clinging to any hint of progress. Some nights, we didn’t know if he’d make it until morning.
I began posting updates on CaringBridge and Facebook so family and friends would know what was happening. At first, it was mostly facts and prayer requests: surgery times, medical setbacks, the small victories of being a bit less dependent on the ventilator or a good test result. But the words kept coming, and as they did, something began to shift.
The responses poured in. Friends, family, even strangers. People messaged us and sent cards. The receptionist at the school where I taught would read the updates I wrote over the PA system every morning so the entire school could follow Luke’s story. On my birthday, Luke was having his second surgery. The school chaplain called from the auditorium. Four hundred students and staff sang to me the most heartfelt Happy Birthday I had ever heard, while I sat in the waiting room. It felt like the whole community was holding its breath with us.
Looking back now, I see that those updates were doing far more than keeping people informed. They were pulling me out of the isolation of fear. Every comment and prayer was like a hand reaching into the dark, helping me carry what felt unbearable. The words I was writing gave shape to the chaos inside me, and the people who read them gave those words a place to land.
Maya Angelou once wrote, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
At the time, I didn’t understand the truth of those words. I was just writing to survive. But now I know that when we tell our stories, something profound happens in the brain and the body.
The Cost of Silence
Some stories are silenced by shame or fear of judgment. Others, like our story with Luke, are too overwhelming to put into words at first. The reasons for silence may differ, but the effect on the body is remarkably similar. Whether we bury our pain to protect others or simply because it feels unmanageable, unspoken stories don’t vanish. They sink deeper, where the body holds them.
Physician Gabor Maté writes about this in When the Body Says No, showing how unspoken pain and suppressed emotions often emerge later as illness. He describes patients who learned early in life to silence their needs and hide their deepest struggles to keep others comfortable. The stories they couldn’t speak didn’t simply disappear. They went underground, and their bodies carried them instead.
Neuroscience helps explain why. When a painful experience remains unspoken, the hippocampus—the part of the brain that organizes memories—can’t integrate it into a coherent story. The pieces stay scattered and raw, more like flashes or sensations than a clear memory. The amygdala, the brain’s alarm system, stays on high alert, constantly signaling danger even when the threat is long past. Stress hormones like cortisol flood the body, keeping it stuck in survival mode. Over time, this constant tension takes a physical toll: headaches, autoimmune issues, heart problems, and even cancers.
Silence doesn’t erase pain. It binds it to our bodies, where it begins to leak out through our health, our relationships, and our sense of who we are.
Why Telling Matters
Henri Nouwen once wrote, “We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories the better we will want to live them.”
When we finally give voice to our stories, the brain begins to heal. Speaking our experiences out loud activates the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for perspective and reasoning—which calms the fear signals from the amygdala. Chaos begins to take shape.
Telling a story also engages the hippocampus, helping the brain weave fragmented experiences into a coherent whole. It’s as if scattered puzzle pieces are slowly being connected, giving you a picture of your life that makes sense.
And when our stories are told in the presence of someone who listens with compassion, the body experiences a powerful shift. Empathic connection releases oxytocin, a neurochemical that fosters safety and trust. The nervous system relaxes. This aligns with what polyvagal theory describes: when we feel seen and safe, our body moves out of defense mode and into connection mode. A skilled listener can literally help steady a trembling voice and calm a racing heart.
This was happening for me in those early updates about Luke. I didn’t know the science at the time, but I felt the difference. Every time someone commented, sent a message, or simply bore witness to our story, my body was loosened from the grip of fear.
The Science of Redemption
Psychologist Dan McAdams calls this process narrative identity: the way we make sense of our lives through the stories we tell. His research shows that people who frame their lives as redemption stories, where suffering leads to growth or connection, tend to experience greater resilience and well-being.
This doesn’t mean pretending that pain was good or rewriting the past to make it prettier. It means discovering meaning in what once seemed meaningless. When we link our experiences to values and purpose, the brain releases dopamine, the neurotransmitter associated with hope and motivation. Viktor Frankl described this decades ago: humans can endure extraordinary suffering when they have a reason to keep going.
The Healing Loop
Storytelling creates a powerful feedback loop. You speak, someone listens, and their compassionate presence signals safety to your body. The vagus nerve responds, heart rate slows, breathing steadies. The next time you tell the story, there’s a little less shame, or a little more bravery. This repeated pattern of sharing and co-regulation builds trust, both in yourself and in the world around you.
Where to Begin
Start Small
Write for fifteen minutes about an experience you’ve never shared. You don’t need to show anyone. The act of writing helps your brain begin to organize what has felt chaotic.
Try using a simple prompt to get started:“The thing I’ve never said out loud is…”
“One moment I wish someone had been there to see was…”
Choose Safe Listeners
Share your story with someone who responds with curiosity and care—a trusted friend, therapist, or spiritual mentor. Notice how your body feels in his or her presence. Safety is often felt before it is spoken.Pay Attention to Your Body
After you tell a story, notice your breath, muscles, and heart rate. These signals reveal the shifts taking place within you.
Silence is heavy. It keeps pain locked inside, turning it over and over until it begins to shape the way we live. But when a story is spoken and received with care, something shifts. The body loosens its grip on fear. The past begins to take shape in ways that bring meaning instead of chaos.
These are the stories that heal us. They don’t erase the pain or undo what has happened, but they open space for hope. They help us live differently and remind us that we are not alone.
Your story matters. It doesn’t have to stay buried or carried alone. Begin with a single sentence, a journal entry, or a conversation with a skilled listener. Every story that is told becomes a step toward wholeness, a step toward connection, a step into the stories that heal us.