Note: This essay has a great writing prompt at the end, so whether you’re a writer or not, get out your pen and paper.
The word truth can be daunting for people. When we ask ourselves what our truth is, and if it’s hard to answer, it’s common to find ourselves in a place of shame: if we can’t find our truth, then are we somehow liars? I don’t want you to go there. I want you to take an honest look at what you hold to be true when it comes to your self-expression.
Maybe you believe that the truth will set you free. If you do, then it means that you conversely believe that falsity will imprison you. Since freedom is usually much more appealing than captivity, then it seems to me that we should devote our lives to knowing what we believe to be true, because knowing what we believe to be true, and living into it, has a ripple effect that not only begins with ourselves and surrounds us in its first few ripples, but goes on and on and on. We have to believe in that. Why wouldn’t we believe in that? But if the place that generates our ripples comes from falsehood, then what are we surrounding ourselves with and sending out into the world? Really think about it. Even a tiny lie instead of a tiny truth, can vastly change us, the world around us, and beyond.
That said, what one person believes to be true, is always somehow different from what another believes to be true, even if it’s quite similar in foundation. I think that one of the reasons why people can become so daunted regarding their baseline truths, and thus start to lose their authenticity, has to do with the societal nudge to borrow someone else’s truth and call it their own. Let’s not do that. We might share similar central truths with somebody, but to clone their truth will ultimately cause us deep pain in and around our very identity. A lot of people call it imposter syndrome.
When I hear someone saying that they suffer from imposter syndrome, I think it’s really just a way of saying that they’re afraid of their truth. No one can be an imposter if they are in their truth. It’s not possible. You may feel like your truth isn’t interesting enough, or original enough, or good enough, but it’s a useless way of thinking and feeling. It doesn’t serve you at all. The child in you knows exactly what your truth is. It’s just that we allow ourselves to be trained out of it, or told that we need to try to be something other than who we are.
Let’s look into the rearview mirror for a moment.
Go back to the first time you were delivered that message. That your truth was not acceptable. Did you dress in a way that you loved, but that your mother criticized? Did she say something that slayed you with shame and rejection? Something like: “Why can’t you dress like your big sister?” Or “Go up to your room and change into something appropriate.” Did you brave a new way to wear your hair to school one day that you adored, but that ended up having you ridiculed the second you stepped into homeroom? “That hair-do is so weird. Who do you think you are, trying to pull that off.” Did you have an opinion at a slumber party that everybody slammed you for, calling you names? Maybe you had a crush on John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and admitted it, and all the other girls said, “Ew! He’s so GROSS! John Revolta!” Maybe you cried yourself to sleep in your sleeping bag that night. Maybe you pretended that you were sick so your father would pick you up and take you home. Maybe you questioned the reality of God at Sunday school, and the teacher told you that your questioning was some iteration of “bad. Very very bad.” And so you pretended to believe to be compliant, or some false version of “good.” Or decided that day to give up on the whole concept of God in the first place. Or maybe you just took your ball and went home, and only asked in your journal. Or in your thoughts. Or maybe you stopped asking altogether.
When we stop asking…that’s the first step toward inner captivity. It’s when we ask that we enter into the realm of seeking. And when we enter into the realm of seeking, we are in the realm of truth, even if we never land on it completely. Again, what is true for us might not be true for others, and it might not make us popular. But at least we’re on the path of truth-finding. I’ve learned that the path, even with its sucking quicksand and thorny forests, talking trees and flying monkeys, is still freer than living in a pathless reality of falsehood. That’s the worst captivity I can imagine. And that captivity doesn’t have to feel like a cold, hard, jail cell. It can feel as big as a town, or a family, or an institution. It might have many moving parts and feel very vast. But I can tell you: it’s not. Luckily, I’ve had the wherewithal to avoid that captivity for the bulk of my life. The child in me just couldn’t stop asking about what is true. Usually it was safest in my journal. So it makes sense that I became a writer.
What happened to you when you were told that you were wrong for your truth, or even just for asking about truth? Did you hide? Fight back? Persuade or convince? Take your ball and go home? Stop asking? Go numb? Give up?
A lot of truth-telling gets squashed in our teens. I stumbled on the word vulnerability in those years, and I clung to it. It was my litmus test for friend-making. One day, I was hanging around after school and everyone was talking about what I considered to be unimportant, like where they wanted to go for Spring Break, because I knew that most of them had problems at home, or with a boyfriend or sibling, or were suffering from depression and how it was secretly manifesting in their lives. I couldn’t stand it, so I said, “I like people who are vulnerable. In fact, if you’re not willing to be vulnerable, I don’t want to be your friend.” That didn’t make me very popular. But it did make me the person that people privately came to when they really needed to share their feelings. That’s when I learned another word: empathy. What makes someone very different from me tick? What is our sameness, especially in our differences?
Looking in those rearview mirrors at my foundational years, I would say that my truth is fired by a seeking spirit, which is on a quest for empathy, love, and compassion, which requires vulnerability and a commitment to honest self-expression.
What is your truth fired by? There’s no right answer to this. But think: what would be on my truth list? What do I hold dear in this way? What is non-negotiable for me? It’s in tuning into these values that we make way for stepping into our truth. And out of imposter syndrome, voicelessness, captivity.
Again, the safest place that I’ve found for my truth, is in my journal. It’s there that I can let my truth flow. Being a writer calls upon my truth every time I put pen to paper. It calls upon my feelings of truth about the world around me, helps me to parse that truth and those feelings, calls me to show up for it, and then eventually deliver it to others, whether in person, or on the page. But it starts with a deep need to see and understand what I believe is true and what I believe is untrue. I have learned, however, that to stay in what I believe is untrue, doesn’t ultimately serve my truth. It gets me very stuck. Instead, if I can use my exploration of what I feel is untrue to find my truth, then I’m on the track to freedom.
People talk about finding their voice. As a writing teacher and retreat leader, I hear this specifically when it comes to their writing. Finding your voice seems to be a block for writers especially, but maybe you feel that way too when it comes to your self-expression in general. Maybe you feel that you don’t have a voice or if you do, it’s somehow wrong. But what does finding your voice really mean?
I like to be playful with it, because it can be full of early childhood wounding and still lava-hot. So I tell my students: You don’t have to write “good.” You just have to write “true.”
Whether fact or fiction, writers should commit to one thing first: writing the truth. You can write about your life, or world-build, you can have your characters sprout wings and fly out the window, but it all starts with an openness to finding the source of your truth and using your writing to bridge to it. Without that commitment, your work will never bridge to the reader. No matter how you turn a phrase or twist a plot, or how strong your command of the language in which you’re writing…it’s truth that you are after.
Let’s think of it in a different way: let’s think about finding your truth in your writing. Forget your voice for a while. Perhaps that sounds more daunting than finding your voice. But to me, it’s a more specific call to action. We all can sense when we’re being inauthentic, or just plain lying. It doesn’t feel good. Maybe that inauthenticity has become a habituated thought pattern or way of expressing ourselves that has traditionally garnered us attention or acceptance in the past. And maybe that felt good to us. So much so that we forgot that we are actually in a lie of sorts. But if we really open up, and take an honest look at it, it’s pretty easy to call a lie a lie and shake ourselves out of that lie. It goes back to: do we want to feel free, or imprisoned?
So how do you know when you are in your truth when it comes to your self-expression? How can you keep from expressing yourself in untruths, especially if those are how you’ve normalized your daily way of thinking, expression, being?
Writing helps. It’s an excellent litmus test for authenticity. Those words stare back at you like a mirror reflection and show you who you really are. I think that’s why so many writers say that they’re stuck. They don’t want to have to see that reflection. They want to stay in their story, which is so often a myth. So I invite you to start writing, if you don’t already, with a serious commitment to use it to find your truth. To me, that’s what writing is ultimately all about.
I know I’m in my truth in my writing when I lose track of time. I call it “a meditative waking trance.” Others call it flow state. It’s when the words come naturally and with ease, even if the content is not at all easy. Especially when the content is not at all easy. My breathing is steady, even if its heaving in my chest. My heart rate is steady even if it’s a-pound. My body is relaxed, even if there are tears dripping down my face. I have found that these sorts of tears are usually less about sorrow and more about truth. They’re truth moving through, and out, of me.
I also know I’m in my truth when I feel a resistance to what I want to write or am writing, whether or not my writing is read by other people, or stays in my journal. I’ve learned that my resistance is really my fear. So I always ask the resistance: What am I afraid of right now? Exposing myself to myself? Being this honest with myself?
If I’m writing something for public consumption, and I feel that resistance, I ask: Am I afraid of exposing myself to others? Having drama around my writing once it’s out in the world? Being judged or rejected for it? Judging or rejecting myself for it?
Whether writing privately or publicly, I usually land on this question: Is shutting down my flow or stopping it altogether, ever worth it? Usually when it comes to others reading what I write, the answer is no. It’s usually worth exposing myself because quite often I’m writing from a place of service. But when it’s a yes, then I know to reach for my journal. It’s never worth shutting down my flow in my journal, no matter how angry, or mean, or bitter, or negative I feel. I know that it’s important to get those feelings out. Admit them and write them out of my system. Perhaps a level of those emotions belong in my published work, but only if it shines a light.
Either way, I have learned that my fear (resistance) is only a friend to my truth if I practice writing through it. So that it dissipates and distills my truth even more. Writing is my way. I hope that it can be your way too, however you use writing in your life.
Knowing when I’m outside my truth in my writing is a bit harder. Both in my journal and for the public eye. But I’ve been practicing for a long time to check in and correct myself. It’s a feeling I have. An impurity. It feels like gossip. Or passive aggressive jabs. It’s made of things that I don’t like to admit to myself, but that are likely pent up inside of me, like: resentment, anger, jealousy, vengeance, pride.
I know that I’m outside of my truth when I use my pen to splash acid against something or someone. There’s nothing wrong with letting these emotions explode for our eyes only, or with holding up the mirror publicly to what we believe is a wrong which needs to be righted. Our civilization depends on it. Nor is there anything wrong with exposing others who have attacked those truths. But if you truly want to make a difference, and if you value your well-being, then there are other ways than vengeance to do it that don’t hurt yourself in the process. Things like: pure indignation, sacred rage, call to action, focusing on the light instead of the darkness.
When we focus on how we feel and what we find to be true, versus focusing on making others wrong, even if we believe that they are wrong, we can depict their actions, but then use them to shine a light on something that adds to the betterment of the collective. Lessons learned. New ways of being. Better questions to ask. Better consequences to believe in. Being in our truth does not mean that we should be in denial or candy-coat the brutality of the human existence. I’m asking you to really think about how you feel in your self-expression. Does it help you to be so mad? Does it help the world? Does it set you free?
I’ve learned that our wellness is where we have to start first. And that goes right back to knowing what our truth is. And living in it.
Here’s a writing exercise for you, no matter where you are in your self-expression, writer or not:
· Start by tuning into your truth. What are your core values? What baseline beliefs do you hold to be true? Focus on inner truths and states of being vs. people, places, or outside entities. List them. Here are some of mine: empathy, vulnerability, wonder, delight, curiosity, awe, compassion, generosity, love) Be sure to be true to yourself. You might have very different core truths than I do. That’s what makes the world go ‘round! In any case, it’s never worth lying to yourself.
· Write your list. Get as many down as you can, remembering that you can always add more later, you’re not beholden to them, and they can change.
· Maybe you’ve only put your toe into these states of being, and that’s okay. Drawing your awareness to them is an important exercise. A toe in begets a foot, which begets a whole immersion. Going slowly is important, especially if you resist this exercise. But maybe you’re so over living in your untruths that you’re ready to dive off the high-dive! Just be honest with yourself. There’s no right way to do this, as long as you begin. And as long as you are true. This list is just for you, no one else.
· Now list the most defining scene or scenes of being rejected for expressing your truth, especially when it comes to these core beliefs. Pick scenes that were pivotal to who you are and how you became who you are.
· Answer these questions:
What did I do when I was rejected?
What were my thoughts?
What were my actions?
What were my spoken words, if any?
What did it feel like in my body?
Now let’s expand from lists and question asking/answering, and get to the meat of it.
· This exercise is in two parts.
· Part I: Pick a defining scene from your list, in which you were rejected for your truth, and write it out.
· Check in with any feelings of resistance. If you’re feeling resistance, write through it and because of it. Your resistance is a great way to see when your truth is being challenged by your fear. Try to acknowledge it, thank it for its service, but tell it that it has no place here. Send it off on some other haunt. You have work to do toward your freedom. Fear feeds off of you staying caged. Your truth, however, does not.
· Be sure to include:
Setting
Characters
Your thoughts
Your actions
Sensory details
Go deeply into what’s the central conflict of that moment in your life.
Go deeply into your feelings.
· Write it in the first person present so that you relive it. (ie: “I am standing outside my classroom. Eighth grade girls can be so mean. But this new hair-do is going to make me some friends, finally. I can do this, I think, as I push open the door. And there they are. All of the mean girls…etc.” Include the whole scene, which may be comprised of several scene snippets. In this case, at home, at school, after school. Maybe your scene all happened in one place. But go deeply into experiencing this moment of your life. Be sure to cover your beginning, middle, and end whatever is true for this pivotal event in your life.
· After you write this scene, which is likely quite painful to re-experience, take a break and check in with your body. How do you feel? Are your shoulders up to your ears? Are you holding your breath? Is your heart pounding? Do you feel your blood pressure rising? Are you crying? Are you leaning over, fetal? Or do you feel relief? Grounding. A connection with your baseline foundational experience that you’ve lost along the way. Are you trying to punish those who rejected you? Are you playing victim to them? Think of it as a mind, body, soul scan. Be real with yourself. Jot down the details of what your scan showed you.
· Now, taking into account this mind, body, soul scan that you just did, and your physical reaction to it, write a Part II of this piece from your current perspective. Where did you land, because of that scene, years later? Anywhere? Or did you stuff your truth even more? Did it change your life? Are you who you are today because of that scene? If so, is that a good thing? A true thing? Or not?
· Part II won’t be scene-based, but reflection-based.
· After you write this section, do another mind, body, soul scan. Jot down those physical reactions to Part II.
· Now consider this: if you can’t say “I’m a writer” and feel like that’s true, then change the phrasing. “I am curious by nature. I believe in the power and healing of the written word. I like to write.” But I’m telling you this: if you put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, you are a writer. So why not claim it. “I am a writer.” It might just be time for that high-dive plunge!
· Bonus prompt: Consider building a personal essay around this exercise!
Is Haven Writing Retreats calling you?
If you want to find your heart language in community, consider investing in one of my 2024 Haven Writing Retreats in Montana. You do not have to be a writer to come. Just a seeker. And a human who longs to wander in your words. Learn your craft. Find your voice. Haven truly meets you where you need to be met. I’ve seen it change lives over and over again. Email: laura@lauramunson.com to set up an intro call.
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Home for lunch from Mrs. Dillingham's third grade, mom sitting kitty-corner at the table, canned chicken noodle soup steaming in front of me: "Don't you ever say that again."
I was just Aquarian enough to take her injunction and turn it into a life's work. Forty years of sitting with others, helping them unearth their fears and concerns, dusting them off, bringing them into the light - often (gently) saying, with knife-like acuity, what they needed to hear to begin to heal.
And now, I write.
Looking forward to late May, Laura!