I’m not a therapist, but I’ve lived enough life to recognize what happens when the soul begins to splinter—quietly.

I recently read a few pieces on “quiet cracking,” (that slow, silent unraveling where your spirit starts to fracture — not loudly, not all at once, but gently and invisibly) burnout with a soul-ache.

Something clicked. It reminded me of the shift I felt when I moved from memoir to fiction in my writing. Suddenly, I had a safe place to tell the truth sideways. I didn’t need to confront anyone or carry the ache of silence. I could just… write.

I gave my protagonists my voice—and gave the villains a little something extra. One real-life betrayal became the climax of a short story. But this time, the heroine had a sword…and a choice.

The mean boss? A double agent. The hurtful friend? A ghost in the rearview mirror.

Through fiction, I could say what I couldn’t say out loud. I could change the names, shift the settings, and keep the emotional truth. It was healing without harm. Justice without consequence. A secret rebellion on the page. And you know what? Sometimes, it’s more satisfying than real life.

So if you're working through the prompts in Sacred Storylines and something raw rises up — don’t be afraid to shape it into story. Give it a beginning, a middle, and a brand-new end. It might be the start of a powerful short story. Maybe even a novel.

Because you never know where finding yourself might take you.

To understand why I write this way, and how it shapes these prompts and reflections, see “Why I Write This Way” here →