Writing in the Fragile Places

...or just NOT

Hello all,

This missive comes from Texas with a heavy heart and includes reference to the loss of children, so take care of yourself and skip if needed.

The Guadalupe flood tragedy in the early morning hours of July 4 remains an ongoing story with many people still missing and many bodies still being found. At my school in Houston, two of our students died, one a third grader and one a recent graduate. I didn’t teach the third grader, but it was no less difficult to see the picture of her bright eyes and soft smile. I did have the opportunity to teach Chloe Childress as a junior in American Lit. She sat near the front of the class and was poised with pen in hand, ready to take notes or free write. When she shared her thoughts during discussion, everyone listened, and when she came to me with questions, she really wanted to learn—not just seek out a particular grade. Chloe was also open about her personal struggles with anxiety, but she faced them head on, which makes her one of the bravest people I know—even before she faced floodwaters with a cabin full of campers. Just writing that sentence breaks my heart.

I heard about the flood waters on July 4 when a teaching friend and colleague texted me, saying, “Just wanted you to know I am thinking about you after the flooding reports and Camp Mystic. I can’t help but think about Watch It Burn.” I had no idea what she meant, so I Googled the story and was shocked to see news about a flash flood, though at the time, the media was reporting that all campers were believed to be safe. We had no idea of the harrowing reality.

I try not to shy away from hard things in life or in my writing. My husband has worked in various forms of ministry for more than two decades, which means we regularly face loss and heartache with members of our community. I’m a teacher, which necessitates helping children of all ages through struggles. In my family, we’ve dealt with our share of mental health issues, including my own. I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder in my twenties, but recently, my therapist suggested that my symptoms may be more akin to OCD with the ‘compulsive’ part taking the form of ruminating thoughts and seeking reassurance from those close to me. For better or worse, I think she’s right on, and I’m working to trust my own instincts and believe my own judgment without reassurance from other people.

As I walked with one of my children through their own battle with anxiety and depression in the wake of COVID, they wrote something at school about me that shocked me at the time: “My mommy is one of the bravest people I know.” (These weren’t the exact words, but I can’t remember them now and can’t find them either, so we’re going with my brain, which I TRUST. :))

The reason my child’s words shook me is that I’ve NEVER thought of myself as brave. I feel like every day since I was about five years old, I’ve had to walk through a forest of fears. I received a diagnosis at twenty-seven (I heard a speaker say once that the average length of time between mental health symptom onset and treatment is 17 years, so I’m close!), and these days it takes therapy, medication, a great support system, and a deep faith to keep me on track.

The idea that facing things equates to being brave shouldn’t surprise me so much, but bravery often doesn’t feel brave. Bravery feels like exhaustion after staying up with an anxious child. Bravery feels like the butterflies in the stomach when you take a chance. Bravery feels like you can’t catch your breath right before you start your first day on the job. Bravery feels like a pounding heart as you say uncomfortable things that must be said. Bravery feels like shedding tears while holding someone’s hand. Bravery is cloaked in doubt and discomfort—and fear. Bravery is found in the hidden, fragile places.

Photo by Jared Rice on Unsplash

When I start a new book, I choose the setting first. After that, I research events that have happened in and around the area, both as an homage to the place as well as a way to try to feel the vibe of the space. Back in 2022 when I started writing WATCH IT BURN, I knew I wanted it to be in the Texas Hill Country, a place I’ve spent many weekend get-aways. As I began to research, one of the first articles I found was about the 1987 flash flood in Comfort, Texas, a tragedy that resulted in the death of many residents as well as children and chaperones who were being bussed away from summer camp to escape the rising waters. I included a fictionalized version of this event in my book, never imagining it could happen again.

This past Monday in therapy, I talked about a strange form of guilt that comes with writing about a previous tragedy that mirrors a current one, one to which I’m personally connected. We didn’t reach any resolutions, if there are any to reach—except to be heard, which can provide it’s own kind of sanctuary, and I know that me writing about a flood had no bearing on the current one. Still, this moment is a reminder that as writers, we often approach vulnerable places, sometimes allowing ourselves to experience the loss, sorrow, joy, and abandonment of another time and place. As a reader, I do the same, allowing myself to step into a character’s life for a brief stint of time.

Right now, writing through hardship is a great escape and a way to process for me, but I’ve also had times when not writing was the best thing for the moment or when I couldn’t focus enough to compose a sentence. I’m learning to listen to my mind and heart about the seasons for doing and the seasons for resting. Whatever season you find yourself in, I hope you embrace the truth that sometimes bravery is disguised in feelings you wouldn’t expect.

As ever, happy writing—or not.