The Only Way Out Is Through.

The creative process will always reveal how close we are willing to get to ourselves. There is no shortcut. There is no option to pass go and collect two hundred dollars. The only way out is through.

When I read something (whether it is a book or a short form piece) I can always tell when someone hasn’t quite digested their own content. This applies to both fiction and nonfiction writing. The creative process is essentially a deep dive into shadow work. How close are you willing to get to your wounded parts? How far are you willing to go in order to understand your limitations and your biggest fears?

The answers to these questions will always come out in our writing, whether we like it or not. There is no fooling our readers. And frankly, we wouldn’t want to. Writers are here to be vulnerable. We are here to show the world our minds and our hearts. The only problem is, that’s also incredibly uncomfortable.

I know this because I have lived it.

When I outlined the plot of my memoir, I realized that there was a full section of my storyboard that I had never processed before. The first time that I tried to write about it, that material came out choppy. Unfinished. Raw. Part of me liked it better this way. Another part of me knew that the choppiness was really an attempt to bypass my own emotions.

As I began writing the first draft, I could feel that dreaded story looming off in the distance. I could feel it lurking in the shadows of my bedroom when I turned off the light. And as I continued working on my book, that story mocked me as I got closer to it with each writing session that passed. It felt like I was checking off days on a calendar until a frightful dentist appointment.

By the time I arrived at that story, I knew that I couldn’t write about it in my home. So, I charged my laptop and drove to a scenic overlook that is about five minutes from my apartment. I settled into my favorite spot and took a deep breath. Then, I told myself that story for the very first time.

I spent about six hours at my lookout spot that day. I wrote until my fingertips went numb and my computer battery display turned red. I felt rushed. Like I had to spit that story out in one sitting. I was not willing to get any closer to one of the most traumatic events of my life.

When my editor read the complete first draft, she let me know that I would need to revisit that entire section and delve much deeper into it. She quite literally said, “Lauren, I need you to lean into the horror.”

Oh. Fantastic.

I knew this feedback was coming, and frankly, it was completely warranted. But this scenario was also my worst nightmare. I had hoped that my single-day writing spree would be enough. In reality, I had to travel much further down the rabbit hole in order for readers to feel the impact of that event in my life. I was truly terrified to do this, but I also wanted to give readers more than a taste of what I had survived. I wanted them to feel a chill at the base of their spine. I wanted them to put the book down and be haunted by that story. And there was only one way to accomplish that.

It was time to lean into the horror.

In order to prepare myself for the journey into hell, I took some time between the first and second drafts of my book. I knew that I would need to process that story before I could effectively write about it in more detail. I began to experiment with somatic exercises that I use in my work as a therapist. I began to discuss that story in therapy. In essence, I went back and provided healing to the parts of me who had never received it before. The parts who had needed it then. Who needed it now.

My book is much better as a result of my commitment to that shadow work.

The same is true for me.

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The shadow is inherently misunderstood. It is easy to fear, and even easier to avoid. But our shadow desires closeness. Anytime our shadow makes an appearance, it is an invitation to meet the parts of ourselves that have remained wounded. The parts who never received a proper apology. The parts who felt too much pain. The parts who experienced tremendous overwhelm. The parts who saw things that seemed to exist beyond the point of logical comprehension. The parts who stepped in and said: enough.

When we are willing to shine a flashlight under the bed and comfort these parts, they begin to soften. Over time, these parts may grant us access to everything they have been protecting from behind the gate. And when we tell these particular stories, we share even more of ourselves with the world.

So the next time you read something and it resonates deep within your soul, please thank that writer.