Shaping and Sharing Our Stories: Using Narrative to Make Meaning

This is a draft of chapter 4 of my book project, "A Healthier Approach to Writing: How Progressive Pedagogy and Therapeutic Techniques Can Support Mental Wellness in College Students"

Benefits of Writing Narratives

While there is ample evidence that many of the unstructured, unedited “freewriting” exercises discussed in the preceding chapter can boost students’ mental (and physical) health, there is also evidence that going one step further—shaping those journal entries into coherent narratives—can amplify the likely health benefits. The process of returning to the initial “raw” and unfiltered accounts of our experience can prompt us to reframe and reinterpret the events of our past in ways that open up new insights about ourselves and new perspectives about others and the world. It can also help us feel a sense of order and control over an otherwise seemingly chaotic jumble of memories and feelings.

According to Pennebaker and Smyth, “People have a basic need for completing and resolving tasks” (136). Traumatic experiences and life upheavals frequently leave us with unresolved feelings and the sense that our life is “broken” or incomprehensible. Narrative writing has the potential to helps us “understand and resolve” such experiences; months after writing about trauma, “over 70 percent reported that writing helped them understand both the event and themselves better” (140). In life, so much happens that is beyond our control, but in writing, we get to decide what our stories mean. As Sandra Marinella puts it, “We cannot change the facts, but we can change how we interpret those facts, how they affect us, and eventually how they teach us about our vulnerabilities and strengths” (17).

Louise DeSalvo has argued that part of the healing power of writing is its capacity to function as “a form of restitution” (10). The sense of empowerment that comes with taking ownership over our own stories can feel like the “righting of a wrong” that has been done to us. Furthermore, changing how we tell our stories can change how we see ourselves. This can be as simple as seeing oneself as a “survivor” rather than a “victim,” or it can be far more nuanced. The main thing is that we, as the authors of our own experience, are in the position of crafting the “characters” that represent us in our own stories. By investing value, meaning, and purpose into the stories of these “characters,” we begin to see the same attributes in ourselves.

Because narrative writing empowers us to rethink and revise who we are and the meaning behind what has happened to us, the process of creating it can be unexpectedly pleasurable, even if the experiences we are recounting were themselves quite painful. “Expressing it in language robs the event of its power to hurt us; it also assuages our pain. And by expressing ourselves in language, by examining these shocks, we paradoxically experience delight—pleasure, even—which comes from the discoveries we make as we write, from the order we create from seeming randomness or chaos” (DeSalvo 43). Hence, such writing is not only therapeutic, but it also has the potential to help students tap into the joyful potential of writing: the joy of discovery and the joy of self-creation.

DeSalvo goes on to argue that this kind of writing also helps us experience “the connectedness of human experience” when we are willing to share our stories with others (43). No one may have experienced the exact things we have experienced, but when we feel heard—when readers relate and empathize—we realize that “our greatest shocks do not separate us from humankind. Instead, through expressing ourselves, we establish our connection with others and with the world” (43).

There is good reason to believe that these feelings of agency and social connectedness may also translate into a higher capacity for resilience moving forward. By writing about our most challenging experiences, “we gain confidence in ourselves and in our ability to handle life’s difficulties. … We see ourselves as able to solve problems rather than beset by problems. … We become more optimistic. … Writing supplants our feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, and victimization” (DeSalvo 45-46). Such a transformation would be great for anyone, but it could be particularly powerful for college students who are unsure about their academic ability. If DeSalvo is right, personal narrative writing has the potential to infuse students with a potent dose of grit just when they need it most.

Some writing teachers may feel that despite the emotional and psychological benefits of narrative writing, such writing should not be a major part of a composition course. They may feel that more traditionally “academic” genres of writing (expository writing, analytic writing, thesis-driven argumentation, research-based writing, etc.) should take precedence over more “creative nonfiction” genres, such as personal narrative. While I recognize the need for student writers to practice evidence-based argumentation and related skills in composition courses (as will be explored in chapter 5), I believe that narrative writing can play an important role not just as a “feel good” genre for students, but also a writing experience that can transfer into greater success in more “academic” genres.

Professor Guy Allen, a long-time writing instructor at the University of Toronto, performed an interesting study with his own students when he switched from a traditional composition pedagogy, with a focus on expository writing, to a more blended approach that incorporated personal narrative and granted students a large amount of freedom in choosing their topics. His findings were surprising: “The evidence I have seen shows that work with personal essays produces better outcomes in expository writing than work directly on expository writing does” (Allen 278). The more narrative writing that he incorporated into his class, the better students performed as writers in subsequent classes, including when called upon to write more traditional, thesis-driven essays. Their overall GPAs were higher as well. “Most students report not only improved academic results but improved confidence–better mental health” (279).

Narrative writing was a win-win for Allen’s students, and he believes that this has to do with the way that it helped them see themselves as capable “meaning makers”—an identity that had not previously seemed inhabitable to most. “Most of the students I meet…do not consider themselves worthy or capable of making a meaning that could matter to anyone, including themselves. Most think they have no meaning to make” (281). If this problem is not addressed first, Allen argues, students will rely on their capacity to “fake meaning,” a skill that many, unfortunately, have practiced throughout much of their prior schooling due to the standardized curricula and assessments that incentivize such behavior. They become reasonably good at producing (on their own, or with the assistance of technology) a generic approximation of what is expected. Marian MacCurdy has also written about this phenomenon, observing that “students have learned how to create a persona in their writing that is distanced from what they really believe, from the person they see themselves to be, in order to offer the teacher ‘what she wants’” (160).

The experience of finding meaning in their own lived experience—through the writing process—can fundamentally change that. Personal essays prompt students to “search themselves and their experience for meaning,” and, as a result, students change how they relate to themselves and the world around them (Allen 281). They see themselves, often for the first time, as meaning-makers, rather than document-makers, when they sit down to write. When asked to write in other contexts and other genres, they are more likely to believe that their own ideas matter, and to invest the time necessary to express those ideas clearly and in their own voice.

Guiding Student Storytellers

Respecting students’ authorial agency is of the utmost importance as we offer guidance in the development and shaping of their narratives. Therefore we must regularly remind students that our suggestions are just that—suggestions, not mandates. Students should not feel coerced into making writerly choices during any part of the writing process that they do not agree with, or that clash with their own vision of what their story should be.

At the same time, students certainly can benefit from our guidance if/when they are open to it, and providing such guidance is an essential part of our job—not just to help students maximize the therapeutic potential of such writing, but also to help them develop effective storytelling skills and refine their writing process.

A good place to start is with an emphasis on imagery. Many students, when writing about their past, tend to rely on broad overviews, generalizations, and abstractions, rather than zooming into specific moments and describing what they experienced with vivid, sensory detail. Encouraging students to incorporate more concrete imagery will not only make their storytelling more vivid, but it will also augment the healing potential of the writing. According to MacCurdy, “Research into trauma recovery indicates that healing is more likely to occur when survivors can describe not just the events of their trauma but the images their memories have encoded,” noting also that this can be a challenge, since “survivors often bury these images because they can get in the way of daily functioning” (166).

When we tell stories about our most difficult experiences with generalizations, abstractions, and cliches, we are trying to keep the more concrete and emotionally challenging memories at a safe distance. According to DeSalvo, “Descibing events and memories in a general way— ‘it was the most horrible time in my life,’ ‘I felt like such a failure then,’—is neither helpful nor therapeutic” (57). MacCurdy refers to this as “the story of the story” rather than story itself. For healing to occur, this distance must be closed—we must be willing to feel those difficult emotions as we revisit the memory with as much of its specific imagery as we can recall. “Remembering details, specific images, and writing them down helps us to heal” (167).

One way to facilitate this is to have students engage in visualization exercises before they begin working on a first draft. Have students begin by thinking of a specific moment or place that is crucial to the story they want to tell. Then have them list as many sense-images that they can recall. Next, tell them to “imagine a film camera in their hands that is recording all that they saw, heard, and touched when the moment they are describing occurred” (MacCurdy 170). The goal should be to describe it, first, as a movie with no voice-over (no meta-narration), just images.

If some students have a hard time accessing their memories, consider using other media to help stimulate their recollection. Listening to a song that they associate with a specific time in their life can help. So can looking at videos or photographs that they have saved to their phone or on social media. After re-engaging with the song, photo, or video, have students write a detailed description of the images they see and remember from whatever associated events come to mind.

Once students are able to access these concrete, detailed images from memory, we should encourage them to link images with emotions. A narrative that is lacking in either is unlikely to facilitate much psychological benefit, and it’s also likely to be less gripping for a reader. As DeSalvo observes, drawing on Pennebaker’s research, “We must write in a way that links detailed descriptions of what happened with feelings—then and now—about what happened. … In controlled clinical experiments…only writing that describes traumatic events and our deepest thoughts and feelings about them, past and present, is linked with improved immune function, improved emotional and physical health, and behavioral changes indicating that we feel able to act on our own belief” (25).

Having students write a “dialogue-with-self” would be one way to help draw out these emotions. Ask students to imagine their current self discussing the chosen event with their former self—the self experiencing it “in the moment.” Have each self describe and explain their feelings to each other. Emphasize that they should strive to include all the emotions they felt, not just the good or bad ones. “A healing narrative is a balanced narrative. It uses negative words to describe emotions and feelings in moderation; but it uses positive words, too” (59). This might naturally lead to the two selves discussing the underlying reasons for these emotions. It is also an opportunity to practice self-compassion, by encouraging students to have their current self look back with concern and care (not judgment or self-blaming) to their past-self.

If detailed imagery linked with authentic feeling and emotion can be considered the “raw ingredients” of a healing narrative, the next step is to find a proper narrative frame for the story. The type of frame does not matter so much, as long as it is able to impose some kind of comprehensible order onto the often overwhelming “chaos” of memory and experience. As Pennebaker notes, “Particularly important is that writing moves us to a resolution” (152). In clinical experiments, participants who were “asked to write in an explicitly narrative format—they were encouraged to have a clear beginning, middle, and end and to make their writing ‘story-like’” were more likely to show signs of improvement (153).

DeSalvo argues that a good narrative frame not only provides a sense of coherence, but also a sense of “completeness.” Encouraging students to fill in “narrative gaps” is thus also a key part of the process. Such gaps might arise, as they often do in writing, when the author fails to realize that the reader needs more information and context to make sense of a story. But they also might arise due to the author’s own psychological defenses. Writers often unconsciously repress certain aspects of a story that are emotionally difficult to confront. Helping students fight this tendency toward repression and self-censorship might involve helping them, through conferencing or workshopping, identify such gaps. However, it’s important to remind them that while a more “complete” narrative may be more “healing,” it is up to them to decide what they are willing to confront, write about, and share.

Similarly, we should not be over-zealous in encouraging students to make their narratives “cohere,” especially if the experience they are trying to represent was profoundly chaotic, and even more so if that chaos is something they continue to deal with in the present. Narrative resolution may help with healing, but this is unlikely to work if we feel the resolution to be forced or inauthentic. Any resolution that the narrative comes to must be true to the writer’s experience. Certain narrative forms deliberately resist coherence in order to evoke, in the reader, a disorienting experience comparable to what the author felt during the events of the story. DeSalvo calls this a “chaos narrative” and remarks on how it challenges and disrupts our cultural predisposition towards tidy conclusions and happy endings. Indeed, narratives that too closely align with what DeSalvo calls a “restitution” framework — where the writer is fully restored to a “pre-trauma” self, with all wrongs being righted and all injuries healed — often ring false.

A third option that may work for many students is the “quest narrative,” which accepts the inevitability of ongoing change and personal transformation. In such a narrative, resolution happens, but it’s temporary and often cyclical. We learn how to live with what’s happened to us, even if some of the scars will never fully heal. The resolution is not in the banishment of negative feelings or pain, but in the learning and the meaning-making that help prepare us for the challenges that lie ahead. In DeSalvo’s words, “quest narratives assert that everything changes, that everything is always changing, and that we can learn to live moral, ethical, deeply meaningful lives in the midst of extraordinarily difficult circumstances” (199).

Some students may find the storytelling much easier than the meaning-making. They can recreate their experiences with vivid imagery and share what they were thinking and feeling as the events unfolded, but they struggle to draw any original insights or conclusions about what happened. Sometimes they will fall back on cliches or moral platitudes that don’t really do their stories justice. For such students, I typically recommed that they reflect on any “surprising benefits” that came out of either the events of their story or the act of writing about those events, even if the experience itself was very painful. This practice of “benefit finding” within stories of loss and/or trauma has been shown to correlate with “not only better physical health, but also lower rates of prolonged grief, depressive symptoms, and posttraumatic stress symptoms” (Pennebaker and Smyth 143). Even if the only benefit one can think of is “I survived this,” it might be enough to help one realize that one has an inner strength greater than one previously realized. Looking for a silver lining also connects back to DeSalvo’s point about striving for emotional balance. We don’t want to sugarcoat, exaggerate, or ignore the negative things that we’ve experienced, but we do want to look for the positive as well. “We must not, of course, deny our negative feelings,” DeSalvo writes, “But neither must we deny our positive feelings: these also must be expressed. Balanced narratives make us feel hopeful” (60).

Another approach can be to encourage students to think about how the events impacted their overall evolution of self. Even if the events “derailed” their life’s trajectory in the short-term, how did they also, in the bigger picture, contribute to the ongoing project of becoming the person that they want to become? If one is able to reframe an upsetting episode from the past as an unfortunate-but-essential “steppingstone” towards a “best possible future self,” then the painful memory can be converted from something wholly negative into a point of inflection in a more hopeful, ongoing story.

The meaning-making is also likely to evolve gradually from one draft to the next. It’s rarely something that a writer knows in advance or could put it into an outline as a “thesis statement” during the planning stage of the writing process. Reassure students that this is normal. Revision, which is always such a crucial part of writing, is especially so when it comes to personal narrative, for in rewriting our stories, we are rewriting our past and rethinking who we were, who we are, and who we’re likely to become. The choices we make in revision reflect the choices we make about how to view our lives and ourselves. “The way we interpret our experiences is critical. We can choose unhealthy ways of viewing our traumas, and this can lead to negative outcomes, or we can direct our energies into editing our stories and giving meaning to our lives. If we can do this, and we can, the question becomes: How can we edit our stories? How can we edit our lives?” (Marinella 178).

How we guide students through such revision is thus enormously important and rather tricky. It’s not just about helping them improve a draft—it’s also about encouraging them towards those “healthy ways of viewing” what they have lived through, without “playing therapist” or undermining their authorial autonomy. The key, I find, is to do one’s best to be a good listener/reader and to remain humble. Careful listening/reading can help us develop a strong intuitive sense of when a writer might be engaging in overly harsh self-criticism (or unfair criticisms of others), or failing to see their own strengths (or the good or bad qualities of the other people in their lives). Yet we will never know our students’ lives better than they do, and we shouldn’t presume our intuition is correct. The last thing we want to do is to invalidate a student’s interpretation of their own story, even as we may want to suggest further reflection and re-examination.

Now, if a student’s “insight” into their story is alarmingly problematic (such as, “This experience taught me I should never again work for Jews”), then of course we should challenge such an “insight,” not validate it. But such instances (at least in my experience) are exceedingly rare. More often, when students are interpreting their experience in unhealthy ways, they are attacking themselves, not others. This often takes the form of self-blaming or self-shaming (such as a former student of mine who wrote an essay about how his father used to hit him, and concluded that he “deserved it”). I’ve also had students who have expressed a deep pessimism about any kind of healing (such as a survivor of sexual assault writing that she will “always be broken” as a result of her experience).

It can be difficult to know how to respond to such drafts. We want to prompt students towards greater self-compassion and hopefulness about the future, but we do not want to invalidate their feelings or conclusions. The first thing, I believe, that we can do, is to make sure such students feel heard. Letting a writer know how and why their story moved us—and that we appreciate the courage it took to share such a story—is a good starting point.

Following this up with an expression of compassion is also a good idea, especially for students who are overly self-critical. Before launching into any assessment of the writing, it’s good for students to hear that their well-being comes first. (It sounds like this is something that you are still learning how to cope with. I hope you have the support you need to get through your most challenging days, and I hope that, with time, you will feel stronger and more at peace.)

After establishing yourself as an attentive and compassionate reader, it’s a good idea to point out what the writer did well as a writer before making any suggestions for revision. This could mean highlighting the student’s use of imagery or dialogue to vividly reconstruct moments and events, pointing out stylistic innovations, or commenting on an effective use of a narrative form or other organizational technique.

It is only after all these moves have been made that I would recommend “gently nudging” a student to rethink any potentially unhealthy ways of framing their experience. This can be done by offering suggestions in question form (Do you think it’s possible, in these last few paragraphs, that you’re being a little too hard on yourself? I know you feel this way now—and I can totally understand why—but do you think it’s possible you’ll feel differently in the future?). Or it can also be framed as just an observation that you had as an individual reader. (I don’t know how other readers will respond to this, but for me, I found it a little shocking that you blamed yourself for this. After all, you were just a kid. Doesn’t everyone make mistakes like this when they’re a kid? I know I did!)

It’s important to remember not to overstep. Pushing students to adopt a more “positive message” that they don’t actually believe in is not worthwhile. That’s the sort of thing that gets labeled as “toxic positivity,” and rightly so. While we want to advocate for an attitude of self-compassion as students write about their lives, we cannot do so with coercion, nor can we do so in a way that undermines the authenticity and honesty of the writer’s voice and vision.

Nor do we want to pose as experts when it comes to what students need to do in order to “work through their issues” and arrive at a healthier viewpoint. We can be attentive readers, writing mentors, and compassionate human beings for our students, but we can’t be their therapists. If students are expressing feelings and attitudes that make us think they may be in danger, we need to help connect them to our colleagues in counseling and/or mental health professionals in our communities. For students who do not seem depressed or suicidal, but still seem to be struggling to come to terms with the emotional burden of what they’ve experienced, it’s still not a bad idea to suggest that they at least consider speaking with a counselor or therapist. (I’m happy to talk about this stuff with you myself, but remember, I’m just an English professor. I can be a good listener if you need to talk, and I can offer guidance on how to make your story more impactful, but when it comes to actually dealing with these issues, a counselor or therapist is going to be able to offer better advice than I can. Let me know if you’d like to give that a shot, and I can have someone reach out to you.)

Signs that students may need more help than we, as writing instructors, can offer, include a tendency to use their writing in order to launch aggressive attacks on themselves or others, or to reify (rather than understand or heal) their pain. When students express “feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, powerlessness, worthlessness, or self-blame” in reference to their present state (not just in a story about their past), it is unlikely that writing itself will offer much relief; in fact, it could make them feel worse (DeSalvo 176). It is imperative that we help such students connect with the mental health resources that they need as soon as possible.

For students who feel unsure about whether or not they are ready to write about a particularly painful memory, there are some alternative approaches that may work. Studies have shown that certain “distancing” techniques when it comes to narrative writing can still lead to positive health outcomes. One way to do this is to write one’s story from an outside (third person) perspective. According to Pennebaker and Smyth, “taking a third-party perspective…seems to provide some emotional distance, and facilitates the processing of negative experiences and leads to enhanced understanding and meaning” (142).

Even writing fictional accounts of traumatic experience can be beneficial—and the story does not even need to be based on one’s own life. “Writing about an imaginary trauma in a deeply personal way was found to improve people’s physical health almost as effectively as writing about their own trauma” (Pennebaker and Smyth 162). The key to this is writing the narrative as if it really did happen to you. By immersing ourselves into the painful situation of the protagonist, we benefit from the process of imaginatively making our way through the challenging event, seeking out ways to cope, and making meaning out of the experience, despite it all being an invention. For students who feel uncomfortable writing and sharing about their private lives, the option to write a fictional narrative is a great alternative.

Choosing the Right Story

Much of the discussion above assumes that students will choose (if prompted to do so) to write about painful and upsetting (perhaps even traumatic) personal experiences, and that doing so—with the right guidance—can result in both positive health outcomes and the maturation of their writing processes. However, as has also been noted, writing about very recent traumas or writing while one is currently navigating a personal crisis can be counterproductive or even dangerous. Therefore, it is important that we don’t force students to write about traumatic experiences and that we warn them against forcing themselves to confront emotional wounds that are too fresh or too deep without the support and guidance of a mental health professional.

If some experiences might be too dangerous to write about, others might be “too safe.” As DeSalvo argues, “Safe writing—writing what we already know or understand, writing that is superficial—won’t help us grow, either as people or as writers. For our writing to be healing, we must encounter something that puzzles, confuses, troubles, or pains us” (93). Students are largely conditioned to pick such “safe” options because they are used to having their writing scrutinized, evaluated, and graded in high-stakes situations. In order to encourage students to be willing to write about painful, confusing, or complex topics that truly matter to them, we have to invest time in building a high level of trust in our classroom communities.

Decoupling grades from individual assignments and projects (moving to contract grading, holistic grading, or even ungrading, as discussed in chapter two) is an important part of building such trust. It lets students know they have the freedom to take risks and be themselves in their work without fear that such choices will negatively impact their grade in the course.

Incorporating several of the reflective writing exercises outlined in the previous chapter prior to the personal narrative project can also help build this trust. By gaining experience with writing that is messy and personal, students come to see the value of such writing—both in terms of how it makes them feel better and how it frees up their creative potential. Engaging in such writing in a supportive community, where classmates occasionally share their work and ideas (consensually and perhaps anonymously), they observe that such writing can be fulfilling and validating, and that no one, in this space, is likely to shame or harshly judge them.

In the end, however, it is important that we respect students’ right to choose when it comes to selecting the stories they want to tell. Forcing students to write about things they are uncomfortable writing about (or uninterested in) will not yield positive results, either in terms of students’ health or their education. Thus, I tend to give students several options of prompts to choose from, and they are also free to come up with their own. Below are some examples.

Silver Lining

This prompt is based on the research of Pennebaker and Smyth (cited above), that shows the value of writing about painful experiences and emotional upheaval with an emphasis on “benefit finding.”

Tell a true story about a negative experience that you had (a bad class, a bad relationship, a bad day at work, a bad decision, etc.). It’s best to choose something you haven’t previously written about or discussed with others at length. Use detailed imagery to vividly reconstruct key moments of your story, and share explicitly how you were feeling as the events unfolded. As you tell your story, try to “reframe” it by putting a positive spin on it. Maybe there was some kind of important realization that came out of it, or maybe you’re just proud to have survived it. Don’t hold back in showing what was “bad” about the experience, but also look for the “good” that came out of it.

Wounded by School

This prompt is inspired by Kirsten Olson’s research into the way traditional schooling frequently results in psychological wounds for students. According to Olson, reflecting on such experiences can help us develop a “balanced, nuanced view” of who/what is responsible for such wounds, which can aid the healing process. “We need to be able to critique many of the attitudes, structures, and instantiated beliefs of the educational system that wounded us—without denying personal responsibility for some of the negative outcomes and attitudes that made school difficult for us” (103). The goal here is to share one’s story and to use it to critically reflect on both one’s own choices as well as the larger forces that were beyond our control.

Tell a true story about a negative experience you had in school (such as an experience being bullied, being shamed, being unjustly treated or evaluated, or something similar). It’s best to choose something you haven’t previously written about or discussed with others at length. Use detailed imagery to vividly reconstruct key moments of your story, and share explicitly how you were feeling as the events unfolded. As you tell your story, reflect on what the school could or should have done differently to better support you as a student. Reflect, too, on the choices you made as you tried to deal with the situation.

What I Did Mattered

Jennifer Breheney Wallace has written about how the most meaningful school projects that students are asked to do are ones where they feel like the work they’re doing matters to real people in the real world, such as internships and community- or service-based projects (193). Having students write about these positive experiences—and to think about ways that their work, moving forward, could continue to serve and matter to others—is likely to bolster their sense of self-worth.

Tell a true story about a positive experience you had that involved serving others. Take us through how you got involved in this work or project, what exactly you did, and the impact it had on the person or people that you served. Also explain how you felt during the process—both the negative and positive feelings. Finally, reflect on what this experience revealed to you about your own core beliefs and values, and how you plan to do work that matters to others moving forward.

Connecting with Nature

Professor Helen Sword recommends encouraging students to reconnect with nature as a key part of their journey to (re)discover the joy of writing. She also notes the ample “research documenting the physical and emotional benefits of, among other things, walking in the woods, breathing sea air, listening to birdsong, bathing in a forest pool, or simply going for an ‘awe walk’ around your neighborhood while mindfully attending to the sights and sounds around you” (66). Jonathan Haidt, too, comments on how the “phone-based childhood” has reduced the amount of time young people spend engaging with the natural world, with likely negative consequences for mental health. This prompt is meant to encourage students to reflect on the value of past experiences with nature and to plan ways to reconnect with nature regularly in the future.

Tell a true story about an experience you had that involved connecting with the natural world in a meaningful way. Describe the setting and events with rich, detailed imagery, and go into depth about how you were feeling at the time, including both positive and negative feelings. Pay particular attention to both how your body and mind felt in this natural space. Reflect on how this event shaped your relationship with and attitude about nature, as well as how you plan to continue growing your connection to nature in the years ahead.

Greetings from the Future

Pennebaker and Smyth have cited the work of Laura King, a distinguished professor at the University of Missouri, who looked at the positive health impacts associated with imaginatively writing about one’s “best possible future self.” The prompt below adapts her prompt into the format of short, speculative fiction.

Tell a fictional story from the perspective of a character who is a futuristic version of yourself. Imagine your life has turned out awesomely, and take us through exactly how all that awesomeness unfolded. Zoom in on key moments and turning points in your life, vividly describing what happened and how you felt about it. Include some setbacks and disappointments to make it realistic, but make sure the overall trajectory is that of a success story. Feel free to have fun with this—be playful, creative, and humorous! But you should also use the story to seriously think about who you are and where you are going.

Mentors Matter

Mentors can play an incredibly important role in helping young people develop a sense of self-worth. When others see value in us, express belief in our capacity to grow and develop, and show us human compassion when we need it, then we are more likely to belief in ourselves and practice self-compassion when we struggle. This prompt encourages students to reflect on and express gratitude for a particular mentor (or mentors) who has mattered to them, along with the benefits that they continue to carry from that relationship.

Tell a true story about an important person (or persons) who has mattered deeply in your life. Share how you came to know this person, and use imagery and dialogue to vividly reconstruct key moments and conversations that you had with them. Then reflect on why this person mattered (or still matters) so much to you. What did you learn from them? How did they change or influence you? Express your gratitude with authentic and original language. (Adapted from Marinella 123)

Do Over

Students who struggle with social anxiety and/or low self-worth can sometimes find themselves paralyzed by challenging situations, especially if they find themselves overwhelmed by an unexpected turn of events. College frequently throws students into such situations, where they can feel socially or academically “in over their heads,” and they may not know how to stand up for themselves, express their needs, or ask for help. This exercise helps students look back on such moments as opportunities for learning and adaptation, rather than sources of ongoing shame or regret.

Tell a true story about a moment when you felt so overwhelmed by what was going on that you found it difficult to take action or even speak. Describe in detail what happened, how you felt, and why you think the situation had such an intense effect on you. Describe, also, how you eventually recovered your voice and agency. If you had the chance to “relive” this situation, what would you do or say? What did you learn about how to deal with situations like this in the future? (Adapted from Marinella 28)

Stories of Illness or Disability

For students who have had to navigate (or are currently navigating) life with a serious illness or disability, writing can serve as a way to explore and come to terms with how their sense of self and their relationship to their body has evolved through this experience. As DeSalvo points out, “illness and disability necessitate that we think differently about ourselves, about everything. We can write a new story for ourselves, to discover who we are now—what we’re feeling and thinking and what we desire. We can learn, too, what our bodies are like now, and we can imagine what will become of us” (182).

This can be especially helpful if the illness or disability in question is one that is often misunderstood or stigmatized, as it gives the writer the opportunity to “set the record straight,” to speak from a position of authority, and to push back against stereotypes or misconceptions. “Writing gives us back the voices we seem to lose when our bodies become ill or disabled. We want to speak for ourselves and our particular experience of illness and disability rather than have someoone else speak for us. Writing helps us assert our individuality, our authority, our own particular style” (DeSalvo 183). And although DeSalvo’s emphasis is on the body here, I believe this is just as true for writing about mental illness as it is for writing about physical illness.

Tell a true story about a serious illness or disability that you have experienced or are currently experiencing. Give a history of your relationship with this illness or disability, and describe how the experience has changed the way you live your life as well as how you view yourself. Zoom in on some memorable and relevant moments that were particularly challenging or suprising in some way, and explain the impact of those moments—both the good and the bad. What are some aspects of this illness or disability that you think other people frequently misunderstand or are unaware of?

Do the Right Thing

As Dr. Pooja Lakshmin explains in her book Real Self-Care, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is based on the principle of aligning our actions with our core values, so that we are able to approach life with a deeper sense of purpose. Doing so may help protect us from severe or prolonged episodes of anxiety or depression. However, this requires that we move beyond merely complaining or expressing outrage when we witness something that clashes with our values. We must also brainstorm ways that we can take meaningful action in the face of such injustice. The following prompt is designed to help students do just that.

Tell a true story about a time that you witnessed some form of injustice or unfair treatment (either of yourself or someone else). Describe in detail what happened, using imagery to vividly bring the moment to life for your reader. Explain why you found this to be so unjust or unfair—what core value of yours motivated you to object? What (if any) action did you take in order to act according to your own values? If you had it to do over again, would you act differently? Moving forward, what actions do you think you (and sympathetic readers) could do that would make a difference and help combat such injustice? (Adapted from Lakshmin 216)

A Relationship in Crisis

When students are experiencing conflict in relationships with family members, romantic partners, or friends, it can result in significant stress and emotional pain, making it very difficult to focus on their learning or, in some cases, even their basic needs. Writing about a relationship-in-crisis (either past or present) can be a way for students to examine the communication styles, power dynamics, expectations, and fears that might be getting in the way of resolving interpersonal conflicts and sustaining healthier connections to the people who matter most in their lives.

Tell a true story about a painful conflict you had with someone you cared (or still care) deeply about, such as a family member, a romantic partner, or a friend. Explain how you and the other person came to be close and what you meant to each other. Then give a detailed description of how the conflict developed. Use imagery and dialogue to vividly reconstruct key moments in the conflict. Analyze possible reasons for why the conflict escalated. Were you or the other person unable to communicate your feelings honestly and respectfully? Did you or the other person act in a way that was overly controlling? Did you have conflicting expectations for the relationship? Did either of you have any fears about where the relationship was heading that got in the way? Draw whatever conclusions you can about why things played out the way they did. Speculate about whether or not this relationship could be healed, and if not, explain what you learned from this relationship that you can apply to future relationships. (Adapted from Rego and Fader 70-74)

Sharing Our Stories

A lot can be gained by asking students to share their stories with one another (or even beyond the classroom, for those who are interested in publishing or performing their work online or at public readings). Yet, for many students, the thought of doing so will evoke significant anxiety. Since I would NOT advocate forcing or coercing students to share their writing in such ways, I recommend, instead, explaining to students the benefits of sharing their work with multiple readers, as well as giving them a refletive exercise to help them work through some of their anxiety.

One of the most important benefits of story sharing is the power that it has to facilitate the building of community. When we share our stories with each other, we come to know each other more deeply, and thus we feel more connected to one another. A more connected classroom means more enjoyable time spent together for the rest of the semester, and it also paves the way for frienships that may last much longer than a single semester.

Sharing our stories also allows us to learn from each other—both as writers and as human beings. We can learn by paying attention to how different stories are told as well as from the stories themselves. We can also learn from the responses that we get to our writing. It can be very difficult to anticipate how readers will respond to our work—what “more” they will want or need to know in order to understand what we are trying to say. Hearing from a supportive and empathetic audience can help us achieve our goals, and it can give us ideas for how to move forward with a work we may want to futher expand or refine.

There are, however, reasonable concerns about publicly sharing one’s work. Some of these concerns can be “contained” by setting the ground rules for how students will respond to one another’s stories, while others can be reflected on privately. DeSalvo urges us to “control the conditions whereby we share our work” by making sure we don’t expose ourselves (and our students) to “vicious criticism” (feedback that is mean-spirited or lacking in empathy). “Vicious criticism reinforces the writer’s deep-seated fear that the story shouldn’t be told, that the story isn’t important, that the story won’t be believed. Vicious criticism can silence stories that must be told” (210).

While it is extremely rare, in my experience, for college students to direct “vicious criticism” at each other when sharing their writing, often they do feel at a loss with respect to how to respond in a way that is helpful and authentic. “I’m no expert in writing,” they think, “so who am I to offer advice?” By reorienting the story-sharing experience away from “peer review” or “peer editing” and towards “empathic listening,” we can create a set of goals and practices that seem more manageable for everyone, and less anxiety-inducing for those who choose to share their work.

DeSalvo lists the following goals for “empathic listeners”:

1. Be a caring presence. This means active listening—giving the writer our full attention, and allowing ourselves to be moved by their story.

2. Reflect back. This means letting the writer know what we heard—the message and purpose that came across to us as readers/listeners.

3. Identify positives. This means letting the writer know what we appreciated, what worked for us as readers, and what made us respond positively.

4. Identify gaps. This means letting the writer know what questions we had at the end, what we wanted to know more about, and specific moments where we were a little confused or unclear.

5. Identify takeaways. This means letting the writer know what we learned from hearing their story—the specific ways in which it opened our eyes and our hearts. (211-212)

Note that none of these goals focus on identifying “mistakes” or “problems” or “flaws” with the writing, nor do they ask students to generate writerly advice. (Even “gaps” are not necessarily “flaws”—they can be the result of purposeful choices by the writer, or a result of a reader simply missing something.) Writers who are looking for such feedback are free to ask for it (either publicly or privately), but it’s not something that’s going to be offered without solicitation. This makes the whole experience less stressful for readers/listeners who feel unqualified to offer such advice, as well as the writers who fear that their work will be publicly scrutinized, judged, or ridiculed.

But of course, no matter what ground rules we set, there will still be writers who are anxious to share their stories with peers. A reflective writing exercise (rooted in CBT) can help students think through these fears and determine if they are surmountable or not. Not every fear is rational, but neither is every fear irrational. After taking a moment to reflect, students can decide for themselves if they are willing to set aside their fears and share their work, or to wait for a better moment to do so.

Begin by asking students to make a list of all the fears they have about sharing their writing. Then, for each fear, ask them to assess the likelihood that what they are afraid of will actually happen. They can state this as a percentage (80% chance it will happen) or qualitatively (somewhat likely to occur). Finally, for each fear, ask students to write a few sentences about what they could do if the thing they were afraid of did happen. (Adapter from Rego and Fader 94)

After completing the exercise, ask students to review their chart and freewrite for a few minutes about whether or not, after this analysis, they believe it is “safe enough” for them to share their writing—meaning, do they feel confident in their ability to deal with any likely, unpleasant outcome? Are the identified risks unlikely enough or manageable enough that they are worth taking? Most importantly, remind students that they get to decide.

For the students who decide they DO want to share their stories, I would recommend giving them a variety of options for how to do so. Some may feel comfortable reading their work aloud in class, whereas others may prefer to have a friend read it for them. Some may prefer to pre-record themselves reading it, or to post it to an online forum. The more flexible we are as instructors, the more students will be willing to summon the courage to put their work out there.

---

That students are usually far more motivated to write about their own lives than other topics will not be a suprise to most teachers, but my hope is that the guidelines and prompts elaborated here will be helpful to instructors who want to make narrative writing an empowering (and potentially healing) experience for their students. It is not a practice that, if done well, results in self-absorption or navel-gazing, but rather, it is a process that challenges us to shift our perspective on our own lives, make meaning out of our past, and reconsider our sense of who we are and where we’re headed. It is a process that can be done alone, but is much enhanced when done in collaboration with a community of supportive and empathetic writers, all embarked on a similar quest.

When students pivot away from personal narrative to more traditionally “academic” genres, there are still many ways to help them make personal connections to their topics in order to cultivate intrinsic motivation and make the work meaningful. Such projects will be discussed in chapter five. I hope to have a draft out by the end of November.

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to share any reactions, questions, or suggestions.

Works Cited

Allen, Guy. “Language, Power, and Consciousness: A Writing Experiment at the University of Toronto,” Writing & Healing: Toward an Informed Practice. Charles M. Anderson and Mairan M. MacCurdy, eds., National Council of Teachers of English, 2000, (249-290).

DeSalvo, Louise. Writing as a Way of Healing: How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives. Beacon Press, 2000.

Haidt, Jonathan. The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness. Penguin, 2024.

Lakshmin, Pooja. Real Self-Care: A Transformative Program for Redefining Wellness. Penguin Life, 2023.

MacCurdy, Marian M. “From Trauma to Writing: A Theoretical Model for Practical Use,” Writing & Healing: Toward an Informed Practice. Charles M. Anderson and Mairan M. MacCurdy, eds., National Council of Teachers of English, 2000, (158-200).

Marinella, Sandra. The Story You Need to Tell: Writing to Heal from Trauma, Illness, or Loss. New World Library, 2017.

Olson, Kirsten. Wounded by School: Recapturing the Joy in Learning and Standing Up to Old School Culture. Teachers College Press, 2009.

Pennebaker, James W. and Joshua M. Smyth. Opening Up by Writing It Down: How Expressive Writing Improves Health and Eases Emotional Pain. 3rd edition, Guildford Press, 2016.

Rego, Simon A. and Sarah Fader. The CBT Workbook for Mental Health. Callisto, 2021.

Sword, Helen. Writing with Pleasure. Princeton UP, 2023.

Wallace, Jennifer Breheney. Never Enough: When Achievement Culture Becomes Toxic–and What We Can Do About It. Penguin, 2023.