Writing in a journal-y, memoir-ish style, I toe the line between sharing and not sharing. Do I regret the abortion, or the “fuck Trump” post? Nah. But when I have to poop—should that make the cut? Probably not. That might cost me my reader’s appetite.
The details of my best friend’s job at Western State Psychiatric Hospital? A family member’s medical diagnosis? Those are not mine to publish.
Knowing which is which was not programmed into me. Early on, everything and nothing felt off-limits. My rattled nervous system offered poor guidance around what was confidential, what was personal, and what was public.
Blindly stepping over the confidential line and breaking someone’s trust is brutal.
In 2014, I worked with a client in a troubled marriage. At the time, I was in an abusive relationship myself, with no real training in couples work. I must have been swept up in the idea of “helping,” because I encouraged her to bring her husband into a session.
All the elements of a raging fire were there. I couldn’t see them. Worse—I didn’t realize I was holding the match.
She emailed me afterward, furious. I had made things worse. I had said the one thing she explicitly told me not to.
There is such a thing as privileged information. I learned that the hard way. And unfortunately, some of those lessons came at the expense of others.
And yet—there is also no privileged information.
There are the things in our lives, on our minds, in our hearts, that beg to go outside. To be heard. To feel air and sunlight. We lock those doors out of fear. We turn back.
Fuck fear.
There’s a tree across the pasture, at the edge of a bank of pines and oaks. It doesn’t grow straight up at noon. It leans—toward eleven o’clock. I sometimes wonder if it’s falling, or if that’s just how it survives.
Where was I?
Sharing is a skill to hone. Of course, I believe that—I’m a therapist and a writer. It’s in my wiring. But when I encourage you to share more, it’s not because I’m a masochist. It’s because I’ve tasted the fruit from the trees I’ve planted. I’ve seen what happens when darker, shamed feelings are dragged into light. They shrink. They soften.
I have an advantage: I keep a record.
Once a year—usually in January, when I started this blog—I go back to 2022. To read my first writings. I feel the insecurity, the tightness. I see the short sentences, the clipped paragraphs. The girl in me who could tolerate the spotlight only briefly before bolting.
That practice—showing up and showing up again—has been one of the most life-giving choices I’ve made.
I’m wrapping up my day now. Grateful for another 6 a.m.—wake, workout, write, work—I’m doing one last edit before bed. It’s only 8:20 p.m., which feels wild, but something in me is excited. To have that early hour waiting. For whatever comes to come. And for me to be ready—arms open.
Good night. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 