I Remember...

I remember when I started writing my book. I remember sitting and reflecting on my life’s journey. I remember my father’s physical abuse when I was a child, to marrying and divorcing by the age of 25, to two premature babies dying, and to building my home. I remember believing my life carried stories worth sharing.

I remember how I shelved that notion until a published author, Marilu Lopez, messaged me during Covid to beta test her writing course. I honestly don’t know how she found me. I remember at the time I wrote short devotionals and posted them on my Instagram page. I remember writing and blogging inspirational material since 2008. I remember my dream of becoming a Christian life coach.

 I remember asking Marilu if I would have a book at the end of the eight weeks. She said I should have a rough draft to start, and the goal was to write 500 words a day. I remember I wrote short anecdotes from her prompts, but the daily assignment proved more challenging. I remember how hard it was to find the words to describe certain events.

I remember that at the end of the eight weeks, I didn’t have a proper draft but more of a concocted, unstructured autobiography. Not Marilu’s fault. I remember I wasn’t a real writer, and I needed more time to learn the art and craft of writing.

I remember how learning to write changed my perception of being a writer. It’s certainly a skill and a difficult one at that. I remember persevering. I remember how courses and myriad books on writing taught me about form and composition, descriptive writing, storytelling, sentence structure, point of view, scene writing, tone, voice, and much more. I remember using snippets of my “autobiography” as assignments that helped put more structure into the project, and slowly, a memoir morphed.

I remember when I first penned the events of my father’s abuse, how my palms sweated, and my chest burned to the point I thought my heart would explode. I remember dropping my pen and slamming my notebook shut, thinking, “I can’t.” I remember Marilu encouraged me to press on as it was the best way to conquer my trauma. My father’s long gone, and I had doubts as I kept thinking, “You’re making your father look bad.” I remember another voice telling me, “You need to write this.”

I remember placing anxiety aside and writing about his abuse in detail until the memory no longer stifled me, and it became evident how much I had suppressed those memories. I remember forgiving my father.

I remember my book is not about making anyone look bad, it’s about sharing that no matter what you’ve been through, you can survive. And I remember how writing my story freed me from the shackles of shame.