Writing Toward Post-Traumatic Growth and Liberation

We need to infuse our work with the same dignity and hope that will keep our minds sane and our spirits strong in the months to come

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

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That which does not kill us makes us stronger – Friedrich Nietzsche

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Hi everyone,

I’ve been thinking about this post for a long time. The first nudge came from a conference I attended last year, which featured presentations from members of the mental health and human rights communities on Post-Traumatic Growth, a psychological theory built on the belief that endurance after adversity can lead through resilience to constructive personal growth. Nietzsche’s assertion, in effect, in clinical practice.

The second nudge came when I read Mas Masumoto’s memoir Secret Harvests in preparation for the October conversation with Mas and Percival Everett that I wrote about here:

Where Does Writing Fit in Your Hierarchy of Needs?

Mas’s story resounds with trauma. His Japanese-American family was placed in an internment camp during WWII and lost not only their property but one of their children — Mas’s aunt— in the process. Due to inequities in the health care afforded to immigrant farmers, Little Shizuko had suffered permanent brain damage after contracting meningitis, and her parents didn’t believe she’d survive internment, so they allowed the state to take custody of her. They never saw her again. And yet, they endured, returning after the war to plant new trees and vines, to rebuild the family business, to grow stronger after suffering, much as their trees did after being pruned. And so, it turned out when Mas found his aunt 70 years after her separation from the family, had Shizuko— in her own unique way.

Though institutionalized, Shizuko’s free spirit astonished Mas. The staff who cared for her genuinely loved her. She’d survived into her nineties with the mind of a curious, headstrong child, defying all expectations. Mas, too came to love and learn not just from her endurance but from her unique power and joy and from the meaning that infused her interactions with everyone she touched.

I know that many of you are writing, as I have throughout my career, about traumas that you’ve endured. But I wasn’t sure how to frame this discussion of post-traumatic growth until the collective blow of November 5 struck us all. Ever since, I’ve been alternating between denial and shock and rage and bewilderment. Fortunately, my ghostwriting project has demanded my attention and provided some distraction. But when it comes to this newsletter, I simply can’t seem to switch back to a straightforward focus on literary craft and publication. I do hope soon to restore the flow of more utilitarian tools of writing. This week, though, it feels like the time is ripe for a post about post-traumatic growth.

I suspect that many of you, like me, can use this perspective now. All of us, I fear, will need it in the ugly future November 5 has unleashed.

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What does Post-Traumatic Growth have to do with writing?

Post-traumatic growth was developed as a theory by psychologists Richard Tedeschi, PhD, and Lawrence Calhoun, PhD, in the mid-1990s. Having observed that people who endure adversity often see positive psychological growth in the long run, they began developing clinical strategies to alchemize the pain of trauma into emotional power.

IMHO this growth is precisely what motivates everyone who’s ever written a memoir, novel, essay, or short story about genuine suffering that they’ve survived. The act of composing a narrative is itself a form of alchemy that forces us to put events into perspective— perspective being an essential element of growth.

Perspective helps us gain distance from the emotional pain of trauma; it helps us make sense of the circumstances that produced that pain; and it makes space for hope of new opportunities, new directions. In a word, liberation.

So many people get locked into spirals of hopelessness and rage in the wake of trauma. Those spirals most often are traps that prevent growth and also undermine the kind of writing that can ease suffering. Yes, writing from a place of rage can serve to vent some pain, but it rarely leads to insight or forward motion. Rage has a wicked way of turning against the rager. Even if you’re looking for vengeance, insight and perspective will provide better platforms than raw anger.

Writing through the pain of trauma implies a journey to the other side of anger and despair. And it is that journey that, as Nietzsche said, makes us stronger. Or, as Tedeschi and Calhoun would say, that leads to post-traumatic growth.

With that in mind, I think it might be helpful to see if the elements of this growth yield any tips for writers who are either wrestling with past traumas in their work, or writing to help liberate themselves from trauma they’re still enduring.

First, dignity

James Gordon, founder of The Center for Mind-Body Medicine has traveled the globe to help transform trauma in the face of war, oppression, and other crises. He’s worked with survivors of the war in Bosnia, with children in Gaza, with members of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation during a suicide epidemic there. And when I heard him speak last year, the core concept that resonated with me was dignity.

Gordon was speaking primarily to clinicians at this conference, so he was suggesting approaches for therapeutic treatment. But a respect for the dignity of the individual lay at the heart of all his advice. Because, he made clear, trauma damages the soul by shredding dignity. It keeps the soul down by trampling dignity. And it prevents recovery and growth by denying dignity.

I have in my notes a starred lesson that the worst kind of trauma victimizes victims for being victimized. The rape victim who’s then shunned for being a slut. The abused child who’s denigrated for being too weak to fight back. The target of bigotry who’s accused of “asking for it.” This kind of double-whammy is designed to crush the soul and prevent recovery.

That’s why acknowledgment of dignity is fundamental to post-traumatic growth. Gordon offered these suggestions, which I’ve re-interpreted for writers:

• Don’t wait for the trauma to be over to start writing about it. No matter how much pain you’re experiencing, you have the right to express your dignity, to raise your voice, to tell your own story. What you write need not be for anyone’s eyes but your own. Even the act of keeping a journal can help you gain perspective. Even if you destroy what you’ve written, the very act of composing your thoughts and claiming ownership of your own narrative will help you grow.

  Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you - Ovid

• Don’t deny your suffering. As Ovid wrote, your pain is a potential source of wisdom and strength. Acknowledging suffering is not the same as wallowing in it. The goal in writing about trauma is to recognize and clarify the struggle to better understand it, not to inflict more distress. But it’s essential to recognize that there is dignity to be found in suffering, as well as in survival and endurance. That dignity should never be denied.

• Acknowledge that trauma is a fact of human life, not a pathology. When terrible things happen to us, we’re wired to recoil in shock and pain. That recoil can disrupt the normal patterns of life, can make us feel “crazy.” But trauma is not a sickness. It’s a natural reaction to unnatural events. The recoil of trauma proves that we’re human, that we feel things, that something terrible has happened to us — and, yes, that we have a story that demands to be told!

• Suspend judgment and reach for curiosity. The deepest source of trauma and indignity is the judgment we heap on ourselves. Whether we bear any responsibility for the trauma or not, most of us blame ourselves for being too weak, frightened, or defenseless to protect ourselves. The suffering intensifies when others blame us. But dignity rises in the absence of judgment. And writing, too, tends to gain quality when we’re able to examine events without shame or blame. Self-forgiveness is the goal here. Curiosity about the objective facts of the story, the background, the circumstances, the invisible forces that surrounded everyone involved, can be a boon both to your narrative and to your ability to forgive.

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As I write this I’m reminded that all these admonitions flowed through my mind as I was writing my first memoir, Solitaire, about my adolescent journey through anorexia. You can read about that here:

Tell Your Story, or Else!

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Meaning liberates us

I can’t think about post-traumatic growth without recalling the wisdom of Viktor Frankl, who wrote in his classic work Man’s Search for Meaning about the insights he’d gained as a prisoner in Auschwitz. “If there is meaning in life at all,” he wrote, “then there must be meaning in suffering.”

That meaning, Frankl insisted, can be found in the choices we make right up to our dying breath. And to prove it he described the choices of kindness and caring made by his fellow prisoners in their final moments before entering the concentration camp gas chamber. He wrote:

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

It is that freedom that liberates us even in the throes of trauma. It is that freedom that empowers us to write the stories that can help us grow in the wake of trauma. And it is that freedom that must fortify us as we face the threat of traumas yet to come.

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“We’re all just walking each other home.” - Ram Dass

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Write toward meaning and growth

There are certain keys that researchers have identified to facilitate post-traumatic growth. I’ve found that these are also pretty good tips for writers. Especially writers in the trauma space, but really… actually… all writers. So I offer them, briefly, to you here.

• Always connect

  The purpose of writing is to form a connection. Even if you write only for yourself, let your words strengthen your connection with yourself. Let them comfort and remind you that you are not alone. And if you are writing for publication, allow your words to reach out, to share your story in a spirit of gratitude and generosity, in the certain knowledge that every one of us needs to connect. Especially in the wake of trauma. That’s what makes us human.

• Tender the scars

  “Tears are a river that take you to change.” I jotted this down in my conference notes about post-traumatic growth. I don’t know who said it, but I love the image of grief as a current moving forward. Tears, too, make us human. So do scars. We earn our tears and scars. As writers, we must tender them as important evidence of our humanity, as exhibits of experience, as proof that our traumas had real consequences. The tears and scars are not all, but they mark the journey in important ways. The suffering that they reflect is a story not of shame to be denied but of dignity to be respected.

• Study your losses

  Some try to shut the door on their losses. Others numbly recite them as if they’re not worthy of examination. It can be painful to look back and unpack illusions, relationships, and dreams that have shattered, to face the possibility that these losses were greater — or, in some cases, that they were less significant— than we assumed. Losses, after all, represent lost aspects of ourself. But the only way to learn and grow from trauma is by delving into them, figuring out what they actually mean and what they cost. This is a critical part of your story.

• Share your hope

  People who grow the most after enduring trauma tend to use what they’ve learned to help others through similar pain. In the process, they share their hope for a better life, for freedom from suffering. This sharing of hope and progress generates the kind of meaning that Frankl described. And it’s a powerful source of strength and purpose in writing about trauma, too. The simple fact that you’ve endured, that you’ve lived to tell your tale, is inspiring! By sharing your hope for a better life, you give courage to others and to yourself.

• Build on your strengths

  As you write about your experience, pay close attention to the decisions, qualities, and strengths that enabled you to survive. These assets not only play a vital role in your story but they can be equally important for your personal growth going forward. What do you discover about yourself when you recall the moments that lifted you up, the choices you made that helped you move forward? Does your narrative honor these strengths? Can you trace them through the choices you’re making today? Can you find ways to build on them as you chart your story going forward?

• Trust the process

  Writing itself has magic powers. Even when it feels like it’s bringing you down, you may find later that it’s lifted you up. This space, between the words that find their way through your trauma to the page and the meaning you later discover in those words—that you decide to embrace and refine, is one of the most mysterious and significant aspects of writing. It’s essential that you trust this process for, as Viktor Frankl explained:

  “In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

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