Caroline Cala Donofrio On Writing As An Act Of Hope
Eight thoughts on grief and writing — and writing about grief — that may benefit others and help us befriend ourselves.
Caroline’s subject this time is grief and loss. Something Caroline knows a great deal about. And something the world is immersed in these days. How like Caroline to take her hurt and transform it into something useful for us.
Caroline’s writing is always hard and clear. And it always nurtures my heart, soothes my soul, and inspires my spirit. I trust you’ll find the same is true for you.
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Writing Is an Act of Hope
8 thoughts on grief and writing — and writing about grief
Hemingway famously said, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
Which is about as hard and clear a charge as they come.
It echoes a sentiment shared with me many times over the years, by well-meaning teachers, therapists, and friends. Whatever setback or hardship I encountered was met with an impassioned, “Why not write about it?” To me, the answer was implicit. Because it hurts.
As anyone who’s ever written can attest, the act of distilling one’s internal landscape into words can be murky enough. Why add shame or pain or grief, then electively dwell there? I’d left that sort of masochism behind, along with notebooks full of angsty teen poetry. I wanted my prose to be light, humorous, inspiring, imaginative — anything except laden with hurt.
Then exactly one year ago, I entered a season of loss, including the deaths of my mother, my dog, and a couple dear friends, all within a few months’ time. To say I was devastated is an understatement. The last thing I wanted was to write about it.
At first, I did what I’d done so many times before: turned to books for solace. I assembled what I’ve come to think of as The Little Grief Library, volumes about death and growth and survival. I read memoirs about loss — Crying in H Mart, The Year of Magical Thinking, Slow Motion, Here After. I read about the history of how humans conceive of Heaven and on looking for signs from the other side. I read a psychologist’s perspective on confronting our fear of death. And I devoured countless essays and articles on grief in its many forms.
To a degree, reading offered both context and comfort. Yet despite sentences I savored and sentiments that made me cry, nothing spoke directly to my pain, or mirrored my feelings the way I’d hoped. It wasn’t until I gave myself permission to write through the grief — some shared with others, some just for me — that I discovered what I couldn’t have predicted: my words were the ones I needed.
And so, I spread the gospel of writing hard and clear about what hurts. Not because it produces resonant work. Nor because vulnerable writing garners shares and high open rates. (Though this may be true.) But because it is an act of love and hope and bravery and healing. And because you owe it to yourself, whether or not you identify as a writer.
To that end, here is what I’ve learned this year, about grief and writing — and writing about grief.
1. Grief is everywhere.
Grief is universal, and not exclusively tied to loss. There is grief in everything — the choice not made, the path not taken, the unforeseen and the unavoidable. There is grief on the other side of change, including those we hoped for. There is grief in our ties to our fellow man and throughout the world at large. Though we may feel alone in our particular shape of mourning, it helps to remember that it touches us all. (And recording and sharing our experiences creates space for others to do the same.)
2. Grief is a time for grace.
If ever there was a time for self-kindness, this is it. It may mean soft blankets and warm foods, favorite movies and trusted company. It can also mean telling the internal self-editor to f*ck off until further notice.
Because let’s be honest. Writing “hard and clear” looks great on a mug or a magnet, but it’s easier said than done. If everything came out hard and clear, there would be no shitty first drafts, no editors, and far less procrastination. When you’re going through something, clarity isn’t always in the cards. And that’s fine. Write soft and messy. Write nonsensically. Write for no one other than you. Give yourself the space to produce as much or as little as you wish. Grief is a time for grace. And writing through grief is no different.
3. …and also a time for courage.
The most surprising part of grief, for me, is the unexpected silver linings. A renewed reverence for life. Fearlessness. Lucidity around what matters. Grief can be a catalyst for growth, epiphanies, and examining the way we live — and how we’d like to in the future.
When you write through hard things, you can use the turbulence as a magnifying glass, a catapult, a launchpad. Experiment. Take risks. Push boundaries. Get vulnerable. Employ that paywall. Let your feelings embolden you.
4. Knowledge happens as you go.
In any personal writing, I approach it not from a place of what I want to say, but rather what I want to know. What I wish someone would’ve told me. What I’m trying to find out. What I struggle to make sense of. What I am longing to hear. Oftentimes, an answer reveals itself as I go.
Never is this truer than when contemplating the kind of ideas — eternity, anyone? — that threaten to break my brain. You needn’t be an expert, on grief or any subject, to explore your views on it. You needn’t have all the answers to sit down and write. Sometimes, it’s best if you don’t.
5. Write because someone may benefit. (It might be you.)
One of the more altruistic arguments for sharing personal writing is that it may help someone else — to feel seen or understood, to educate and inspire. While I fully subscribe to this, there is another truth at play: the act of writing may also help you. Sure, it may not feel very helpful when you first sit down, or as you’re wading through whatever comes out. But a piece of personal writing is a conversation between who you are at the beginning and who you are by the end. And the person I am after having written is always grateful I took the leap.
6. Through writing, we capture — and celebrate — life.
How human it is to learn something a little too late. How human it is to forget. How human it is to want to stop time, freeze the moment, return to another stage of life. While none of this is possible, we can preserve and record our memories, our thoughts, the beauty we wish to hold. We can pay homage and keep spirits alive. We can create a container for what we do not wish to carry. To write about grief (or loss, or death, or fear, or heartbreak) is to write about life.
7. Writing is an act of connection, in more ways than one.
Though I often write alone, it always feels like I’m in community — with my inner voice, my higher self, the spirit world, an imaginary reader... When I write, I am never alone, because I actively become my own friend. Whatever you believe, writing can be an act of connection, and of uncovering mysteries, even if only within your own mind.
I have a friend who loathes writing but speaks their complicated feelings out loud when they’re alone in their car. They’ll speak to deceased loved ones. They’ll talk through their pain. They’ll talk to themself, saying the words they most need to hear. In their own way, they write hard and clear about what hurts. This absolutely counts.
8. Writing is an act of hope.
When my mom got sick, she developed a new hobby: entering book giveaways. She entered seemingly all of them. “I won a new book!” became a regular refrain. They formed piles on the dining table, spanning every imaginable genre and category — memoirs and business books and romance novels with covers that made me blush. I suspect the books provided something in short supply: They made her feel lucky.
I once read that buying and collecting books is actually about mortality. When we bring a book into our possession, it’s not merely about the words and worlds contained therein, but about the time it will take to read them — time we assume we have. The article insinuated that amassing books was an exercise in avoidance.
Put another way, it is an act of hope.
Over the last year, I’ve come to see both reading and writing as an act of hope. Of connection. Of reaching across time and space, to touch whoever may read it.
The act of writing alone may not provide instant healing, for ourselves or another. But whenever we write, we may hope our words will find their way to someone who needs them (including ourselves). And in those moments when hope is in short supply, it helps to think that our words — hard, clear, or otherwise — can actually help create it.
If you enjoyed this essay by Caroline, you might also like this one by Amy Scher:
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I was just speaking with my mother the other night about things I find myself wanting to ask my dad because I’ve realized something I don’t know about him and very much wish to, but he’s been dead ten years now. Grieving him changed me, made me, in part, the person who now has these questions. And so I am left with the poignant irony that I had to lose and mourn him to become an adult who could love him and extend him some mercy.
“I discovered what I couldn’t have predicted: my words were the ones I needed.” Gorgeous.
This and the concept of writing as a conversation between the you before and after I’ll take with me.
And yes, grief is in everything, isn’t it? How couldn’t it be with all the ephemerality certain and uncertainty tied up?
Thank you, Caroline and Jane.