When We Share

Prone to isolating, I’ve found myself consuming far more than creating lately—even though I wrote “Word for 2026: Create” in pretty letters on my refrigerator in January. The deepest truth of who I am wants to do nothing but create, but the parts of me intent on staying small are winning out these days. And I must say, they’ve come by their beliefs honestly.

They learned early that sharing your creative work is signing up to embarrass yourself—potentially to be laughed at, or worse, applauded in public and then gossiped about in private. Their protest signs say, “Who do you think you are?” and “What gives you the right?!!” and “Honk if you think Tricia is a grandiose idiot for thinking she could write anything worth reading!” And a cacophony of horns rattles my mind.

Who could work under these conditions?

The only reason I am writing to you now is that I have volunteered to host weekly silent writing sessions in A Writing Room. I have an appointment to show up every week. I have committed to holding space for other writers, and, as I am coming to learn, I take that much more seriously than holding space for myself.

Each week, I begin our sessions with a quote, hoping it will inspire the fifteen or so other writers who hold vigil with me. I share, we write for one hour, and then we come back together to discuss what’s on our minds.

Today, I shared an excerpt from Lisa Cooper Ellison, a trauma-informed writing coach and author of the Writing Your Resilience Substack. I debated whether to share it, since it was much longer than my usual quotes, but I went with my gut and shared it anyway.

In part, she offers, “While they’re designed for relationships, [Thích Nhất Hạnh’s four mantras] work beautifully with creative work and the younger parts of you that live in your stories.”

The mantras are:

“Darling, I’m here for you.”

“Darling, I know you are here, and I am happy.”

“Darling, I know you suffer. That is why I am here for you.”

“Darling, I suffer. Please help me.”

Lisa goes on to provide luminous insight on how to apply these mantras to our writing lives, which you can read in her full post here.

What a brilliant way to approach our writing: to recognize that it is simply a young part of us that wishes to be expressed. To approach it with the reverence of holding your best friend’s newborn for the first time, to look upon it with the awe reserved for watching the sun rise.

After sharing, my cohort added comments to the Zoom chat: “Thank you for that. It was exactly what I needed,” and “Wow, beautiful. Thank you, Tricia. That speaks to my soul.” I’d say the thanks go to Lisa, really, but this feedback landed within me a message I so needed to hear:

When we summon the courage to share what moves us, others benefit. Our sharing is a gift.

Because Thích Nhất Hạnh shared, Lisa was inspired. Because Lisa hit publish, I was moved. Because I was moved, I shared. Because I shared, these writers set out to write for an hour, and who knows how many will be inspired by what they wrote?

It all hinges on our willingness to express what touches that place inside us, to pass on the words that stick to us just long enough to whisper them in the ear of the next person in need.

I suppose this is the feeling from which the phrase, “There’s nothing new under the sun,” arises, and yet, the new is sprouting from the soil of the old every day. A butterfly flaps its wings outside Thích Nhất Hạnh’s window in the ‘90s, and today, the wind is at my back.

And so, with this truth in my heart, I turn to the little vigilante in my mind:

Darling, I’m here for you. I know you’re scared, and, given what you’ve been through, I don’t blame you. But I am much older now, and infinitely more capable of keeping us safe. I show up for other creatives who need support to open themselves, and I will show up for you in the same way, if you’ll let me.

Darling, I know you are here, and I am happy. I see you there, with your shield and sword, and I’m so grateful you want to protect me. I can feel you want the best for me, and that makes me beam with pride. I want you to know I will never send you away. I love your generous heart.

Darling, I know you suffer. That is why I am here for you. I know you play flashbacks over and over in your mind—rewatching terrifying images from our past. They convince you to keep your armor on. I am here to sit with you as you unbrace. I am not going anywhere. I know it is hard to believe, but my whole reason for existing is to make sure you know you’re safe.

Darling, I suffer. Please help me. Put down your signs and go play. Please trust me when I say, I’ve found a different route, one that will put us both at ease. One where we both get to live in joy.

So, my darling, can we open ourselves to the muse today? It seems as though someone needs what we have to share.