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The other day, I visited with a new neighbor I met on one of my walks during the pandemic. As we sat in her backyard and looked out over the bounty of her gardens, sipping tea, she told me about her past, and the abuses visited on her as a child, abuses that linger now in health issues and low self-esteem. Later that evening and into the next morning, her story stayed with me, echoing so many of the stories I heard when I ran women’s workshops. What cruelty and heartache there is in the world, I thought. But I also saw, within the folds of her story, her bravery and courage; the heroism she had to save herself again and again and again. I don’t know that she sees that. I don’t know that any of us does, really. “You’re so hard on yourself,” an old boyfriend used to tell me. And I am, just as, I suspect, this new friend is. But the truer truth is that each of us, in one way or another, has saved ourselves again and again and again. The challenge is to see that and our heroism. As I grapple with a book project, and a way to articulate how to reclaim one’s story in a culture bent on co-opting it, what rises up is this need to own the heroism inherent in living our lives. Indeed, when I ran workshops with professional women, no one dared claim the title “hero.” This is what the world needs. This is what a silly Hallmark movie after my visit with my friend reminded me of. We are all heroes. Our work is to claim that and the story that is ours to tell and live and yes, for me, to write.
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