Recently, I’ve been playing with ideas for my next book, feeling into themes and letting memories rise, even the ones I’ve tucked away for too long. Yesterday, I had a mini soul plan reading, and three things jumped out at me – betrayal, forgiveness, and the messy, beautiful act of reclaiming one’s voice.
I sat with these words, journaled, and let fragments of the past come together like pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle. It struck me just how much I’ve carried, how much I’ve overcome, and how many stories have been waiting to be told.
There’s a particular kind of magic that happens when we allow ourselves to listen deeply. In the quiet moments between thoughts, in the early morning hours when the world is still asleep (that was me at 4am), or sometimes, unexpectedly and in the midst of ordinary life, we hear them – the whispers from our soul.
What amazed me most was the wonderful release that came with acknowledging these patterns. When I looked at the past and connected it to the present, suddenly, seeing the larger expanse of my experiences made so much sense. One of those glorious, full-body “aha” moments that changes everything.
And then, a question arose that wouldn’t leave me alone. What book do I wish someone had written for me when I needed it most? You know, back when a lot of this stuff was really playing out.
The Book That Would Have ‘Saved’ Me
I use the word saved me advisedly because I don’t really think books save us in the sense that someone might pull us out of a murky river that we’d fallen into. More in the sense that it would have saved us lots of heartache because it was here to guide us.
It would be the book that says, “You are more than your wounds. You are the wild, wise woman (or man) who can rise again, no matter what life has thrown at you.“
It’s the book that would have held my hand when I felt devastatingly alone, that would have reassured me when I doubted my worth down to my bones, and that would have reminded me that my voice matters, especially when others tried their hardest to silence it.
I needed that book during those 3 am moments when I questioned everything. During the times when I’d lost my way so completely that I couldn’t remember who I was before the pain. During those times when I felt too small, too broken, or too afraid to speak my truth.
The book I needed wouldn’t have offered tidy solutions or ten-step plans for healing. It would have been messy, honest, and real. It would have shown me that transformation isn’t linear and that it involves circling back, stumbling, rising, and sometimes crawling through the darkness before finding the light again.
It would have been medicine for my soul.
And I’ve come to believe, with every fibre of my being, that the books we most need to read are often the very ones we’re called to write.
The Medicine in Your Story
Think about it, I am. The experiences that have shaped you, the wisdom you’ve earned through just living, and the challenges you’ve overcome form a unique medicine that only you can offer.
Because, my goodness, your story matters.
Not because it’s perfectly designed and fluffed up or because it follows some prescribed narrative arc. While I love a narrative arc in the technical sense, it can constrict your flow. And not because it’s sensational or, marketable or trendy.
Your story matters because somewhere, someone is living through what you’ve survived. Someone is asking the questions you’ve answered for yourself. Someone is seeking the wisdom you’ve earned through living. They absolutely have.
Your story matters because it’s yours and because sharing it might just be the thing that helps someone else find their way home to themselves.
I can cast my mind back to a novel I have wanted to write forever, but it includes a dead alcoholic father (my dad), and to help me, I purchased two books. One was about being the child of an alcoholic father, and another by a former female alcoholic opened my eyes to drinking in a different context. They both helped me but put a big pause on my book. It wasn’t the right time. It got me thinking how much I wished I could find it in me to write, but I couldn’t then.
“Write the book you wish you could have read when you needed it most.”
There’s such truth in these words. The longing we feel for certain stories often points to the very ones we’re meant to tell.
Listening for Your Book’s Whisper
So here’s my question for you. What’s the book you wish someone had written for you?
Take a moment. Close your eyes if it helps. Place a hand on your heart and ask yourself:
- What wisdom did I desperately need during my darkest moments?
- What truths do I wish someone had spoken to me when I felt lost?
- What story might have helped me feel less alone in my experience?
- What message would have been a balm to my wounded heart?
- What perspective might have changed everything for me?
Your answers may come immediately, or they might need time to surface (they do with me). They might arrive as fragments, images, or feelings rather than fully formed concepts. That’s perfectly all right. The soul speaks in its own language, one that often defies linear thinking and neat categories.
Journal Prompt – The Book of Your Heart
When you have played with that, I invite you to explore this question more deeply through writing. Set aside 20 uninterrupted minutes with your journal and respond to these prompts:
- If I could go back in time and give my younger self one book, what would it contain? What would the first page say?
- What are the stories, experiences, or wisdom I’ve gained that I wish had been shared with me earlier in life?
- If I imagine someone just like me finding a book that speaks directly to their soul, what would that book be about? What would its central message be?
- What themes, experiences, or insights keep returning in my life, almost as if they’re asking to be explored more deeply?
- If I were to write a book that serves as medicine for others, what healing would it offer? What wounds would it help to mend?
These are big questions, but give them a go and write without censoring yourself. Let the words flow without worrying about how they sound or whether they make sense. This is between you and your soul (God, Grace, Universe, Higher Self). No one else needs to see it unless you choose to share.
The Sacred Act of Listening to Your Story
There’s something so healing about allowing your story to be witnessed, even if the only witness is yourself through the act of writing. Yes, the 3 or 4 am journaling sessions.
When we write, we create space to hold our experiences with compassion. We begin to see patterns and connections we might have missed. We give voice to parts of ourselves that have been silent for too long.
In my own journey, I’ve discovered that writing is not just about communicating with others; it’s a sacred dialogue with myself, with the divine, and with the deeper wisdom that lives beneath the surface of everyday awareness.
When I started writing in my journal last night about betrayal, forgiveness, and reclaiming my voice, something shifted. It wasn’t just that I understood my experiences differently; I could see that there was a new relationship with them. I could see a wisdom earned through living that might serve others. I could see that this theme kicking off my book. It fits so perfectly.
Exercise – A Letter from Your Book
I love letters from exercises. It’s something I do a lot. So, imagine that the book you’re meant to write is already complete. It exists as an energy, an entity with its own wisdom and purpose.
Now, imagine this book could write you a letter. What would it say? What does it want you to know about why it has chosen you as its author? What healing or transformation might it bring, both to you in the writing of it and to others in the reading?
Take 15 minutes to write this letter from your book to you. Begin with:
Dear [Your Name],
I am the book that has been waiting for you. I chose you because…
Allow whatever comes onto the page. Just trust. This isn’t about writing perfect prose, although you could. It’s about opening a channel between your conscious mind and the deeper wisdom that lives within you.
You might be surprised by what emerges. I always am.
You could also do the two-chair exercise where you imagine your book in the other chair, and you take it in turns to have a conversation with it. Most enlightening, if I say so myself.
The Courage to Begin
Perhaps as you’ve read this, something has stirred within you. A recognition. A knowing. A quiet voice saying, “Yes, there’s a book in me.” Yahoo!!! And perhaps, alongside that recognition, fear has also appeared. You know that horrible ugly voice that might say…
- Who am I to write this book?
- What if I’m not qualified enough?
- What if I’m judged for sharing my story?
- What if my writing isn’t good enough?
- What if I start and can’t finish?
These fears are normal. They’re part of the territory when we consider creating something meaningful. In fact, their presence often signals that we’re onto something important. I get it a lot and have to remind myself that fear and excitement are bedmates, perhaps tell our annoying gremlins to shut the f*** up and allow creativity in.
“Dearest Fear,
Creativity and I are about to go on a road trip together. I understand you’ll be joining us… But understand this. Creativity and I are the only ones who will be making any decisions on our adventure… You’re allowed to have a seat, and you’re allowed to have a voice (maybe), but you are not allowed to have a vote.”
You don’t need to banish fear to the naughty corner in order to begin. You simply need to ensure that it’s not the one making the decisions or the one with the loudest voice.
Beginning Where You Are
It’s always about beginning where you are. The beautiful truth about writing your book is that you don’t need to have it all figured out to begin. You don’t need fancy credentials, a perfect outline or unshakable confidence.
You just need to start.
Start with one memory, one insight, one story that won’t leave you alone. Start with the question that keeps returning. Start with what breaks your heart or what heals it. Start with what you know for sure or with what you’re still figuring out.
The act of beginning creates momentum. It signals to your soul and to the universe that you’re ready to bring this book into being.
And here’s a secret that published authors know. The book you start writing is rarely the book you finish writing. As you write, the book will reveal itself to you. It will show you what it needs to become. This is soooo true. Your job is simply to show up, to listen, and to write what wants to be written through you.
Your Invitation to Begin
If the idea of writing a book that serves as medicine for others resonates with you, consider this your formal invitation to begin. Not someday. Not when you have more time or when you feel more ready. Today.
Start with just fifteen minutes. Open a new document or turn to a fresh page in your journal, and write about the book you wish someone had written for you. Don’t worry about structure or style or whether it makes sense. Don’t concern yourself with publishing or marketing or how it will be received.
Simply write from your heart to the heart of someone who needs your brand of medicine.
And then, tomorrow, write for another fifteen minutes. And the next day. And the next. Your book will begin to take shape, one small session at a time.
The World Needs Your Medicine
As I fiddle with ideas for my book, I’m reminded of how interconnected our stories are. How the medicine I need might is the very medicine you’re here to offer. How the book you’re called to write might be the one I’ve been waiting to read.
Our stories matter not because they’re unique (though they are) but because they’re universal. Because in sharing our most honest truths, we create spaces for others to recognise and embrace their own. And because others can see what is possible in the world.
The words you long for might just be the ones someone else needs to hear. And perhaps, just perhaps, they’re waiting for you to write them.
“You don’t need to be ready. You just need to be willing to begin.”
Ready to Write the Book That’s Waiting in You? Head here.
