We put this ridiculous pressure on ourselves to have our stories perfectly wrapped up before we dare share them. To have learned all the lessons, healed all the wounds, and arrived at some gleaming destination of wisdom before we’re “qualified” to speak our truth.
I’m speaking from personal experience and working with clients on their books. It’s the I just need to or when I syndrome. Which, in all honesty, happens in many areas of life. I cringe when I think of the times I have not moved forward because I couldn’t see around a corner or was wishing for something.
But what if that isn’t what works?
What if the most powerful stories – the ones that actually change lives – are the ones still being written? The messy, unfinished, gloriously imperfect narratives that say, “I’m still figuring this out, and that’s precisely why it matters”?
This happens in many books. This week, a client stumbled into something that needed exploring and that she knew needed a chapter. She didn’t know when she started this would come up, yet it did. And it happens to me. I’m currently mapping out a book to write during siesta time – when it’s too damn hot to do anything – and things keep popping up.
The Myth of the Complete Story
There’s a big fat myth that transformation has a beginning, middle, and end. That there’s a moment when you “arrive” and can finally turn around and offer your perfectly polished wisdom to those still struggling in the trenches.
It’s bollocks, really.
The truth is messier and far more beautiful. We’re all works in progress, living stories that twist and turn, circle back on themselves, and refuse to follow the neat narrative arcs we’ve been taught to expect.
I used to think I couldn’t write about early abuse until I’d completely “solved” the fallout. Couldn’t speak about finding my authentic voice until mine was crystal clear and unwavering. Couldn’t guide others through transformation until my own was complete and tidy.
That thinking kept me silent for years.
Life is so weird at times, and I have learned that completion is an illusion, as I am sure many have. There is no final chapter where everything makes perfect sense, all the threads tie up neatly, and you head back to the soul place with a certificate of whatever. There are only moments of clarity in an ongoing journey, insights gleaned from the path we’re still walking or maybe even crawling at times.
The Power of the Unfinished
Some of the best books I’ve worked on were written by people in the thick of their own struggles. Not after they’d emerged victorious, but while they were still wrestling with questions, still discovering answers, still fumbling their way towards understanding.
Whether you like it or not, writing uncovers stuff and gives you clarity. That’s why I love writing and journaling so much.
There’s something deeply human and achingly beautiful about witnessing someone’s real-time reckoning with life. It strips away the pretence and gets to the heart of what it means to be human: confused, hopeful, struggling, growing, and always becoming. And I do know it feels like shit sometimes – but not always and not forever.
We rob the world of this raw authenticity when we wait for our stories to be “complete” before sharing them. We present ourselves as finished products rather than fellow travellers. I know it can make you feel vulnerable, but what the hell?
But people don’t connect with perfection. Ok, they may do in the adverts. Who hasn’t drooled over (in my case) a male model – far too young and ripped. They connect with truth. And the truth is messy, ongoing, and beautifully unfinished.
What Your Unfinished Story Offers
Your story doesn’t need to be complete to be valuable. In fact, its very incompleteness might be its greatest gift.
Permission to be human. When you share your unfinished story, you give others permission to be works in progress too. You normalise the struggle, the uncertainty, the beautiful mess of becoming.
Real-time wisdom. The insights you’re gaining right now, in the midst of your journey, mess or whatever you call it, are often more relevant and accessible than the polished wisdom that comes after years of reflection. You remember what it feels like to be where others are now.
Authentic connection. There’s something profound about saying, “I don’t have this all figured out, but here’s what I’m learning.” It creates space for genuine dialogue rather than one-way teaching.
Hope in the darkness. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can offer someone struggling is proof that it’s possible to keep going without having all the answers. That you can write your way through confusion, speak your truth while still discovering it, and offer light while still finding your own way. I always say that if it is possible in the world, it is possible for me.
The Stories That Need Telling Now
Think about the story you’re living right now. The challenge you’re navigating, the question you’re wrestling with, the transformation you’re in the middle of. This is what I feel like.
What if that story – unfinished as it is – contains exactly what someone else needs to hear?
Maybe you’re learning to set boundaries for the first time and feeling like you’re doing it all wrong. Someone needs to hear that it’s ok to be clumsy at first.
Maybe you’re rebuilding your life after a loss, and some days, you feel like you’re making progress, while others feel like you’re moving backwards. Someone needs to know that healing isn’t linear.
Maybe you’re trying to align your work with your values, and it’s messier and scarier than you expected. Someone needs to see that it’s possible to make these changes even when you can’t see the whole path.
Your unfinished story might be precisely the map someone else needs.
Permission to Begin Before You’re Ready
Here’s what I wish someone had told me years ago: you don’t need to wait until your story is complete to start writing and sharing it. You don’t need to have all the answers to offer valuable questions. You don’t need to be finished healing to help others begin.
You just need to be a few steps ahead on the path, willing to turn around and extend your hand to someone just beginning the journey you’re on. This is true in all areas of life.
This doesn’t mean sharing indiscriminately or processing your pain publicly without boundaries. It means recognising that your ongoing experience has value, that your current insights matter, and that your unfinished wisdom is still wisdom.
The Courage of the Incomplete
It takes a particular kind of courage to share an unfinished story. To say, “I don’t know how this ends, but here’s what I’m learning along the way.”
There’s vulnerability in admitting you’re still figuring things out. There’s risk in offering insights that might evolve as you continue growing. There’s uncertainty in speaking from the middle of the story rather than its resolution.
But there’s also incredible power in that honesty.
When you share your unfinished story, you model something radical: that it’s ok to be in process, that growth is ongoing, and that we don’t need to wait for completion to be of service.
You show others that wisdom doesn’t only come from arrival – it comes from the willingness to pay attention along the way.
Honestly, if you doubt this, I’m telling you that this book I am writing is coming from my messy middle. I know as I write, I will heal, and it will make sense, and without a doubt, my story won’t be over.
Writing From the Middle
If you’re feeling called (screamed at by spirit) to share your story but waiting for it to be “ready,” consider this your permission to begin now. Not because your story is complete but because it’s alive, evolving, and exactly what someone else needs to witness.
Start where you are. Write from the questions, not just the answers. Share the insights you’re gathering in real-time, the discoveries you’re making in the midst of uncertainty.
Your unfinished story is not a rough draft waiting to become something valuable. It is valuable right now, in all its messy, uncertain, gloriously human incompleteness.
Seriously, in case you haven’t heard me – the world doesn’t need another polished memoir from someone who has it all figured out. It needs your honest account of what it’s like to be human, struggle, and keep going without knowing how it all ends.
It needs your unfinished story.
Because somewhere out there, someone is living a story remarkably similar to yours. They’re in their own messy middle, wondering if they’re doing it right, if it gets easier, and if there’s any point in continuing.
Your willingness to share from the thick of it might be what allows them to keep writing their own story, one uncertain, courageous word at a time.
So write from where you are, not where you think you should be. Share the story you’re living, not just the one you’ve completed.
Your unfinished story is already complete enough to matter.
Ready to explore what it means to write your story while you’re still living it? Sometimes, the most powerful books are written from the beautiful mess of the middle.
A few questions for you
- What unfinished story are you avoiding sharing, and why?
- What would it feel like to write from the middle?
- Whose permission are you still waiting for?
From Messy Middle to Meaningful Book
Now, here’s where the craft comes in. Writing from your unfinished story doesn’t mean dumping your stream of consciousness onto the page and calling it a book. There’s a difference between sharing your raw experience and shaping it into something that serves your reader.
Writing from the messy middle is healing, cathartic, and honest. It helps you make sense of your world and opens the door to deep personal insights. But when it comes to turning that writing into a book – something you share with others – you’re being asked to take one step further.
You must choose a point of pause.
Not because your story is over but because this chapter holds enough meaning, clarity, or hard-earned wisdom to serve someone else. You’re saying, “This is what I’ve learned so far. This is what I’m ready to share.” Not from a place of finality but from a place of value.
So yes – write through the mess. Explore the unknown. Capture the questions, the shifts, the breaking and rebuilding. And when you’re ready to shape it into a book, decide:
- What part of this am I ready to close the page on for now?
- What insight, even if incomplete, could help someone else?
- Where does the story pause – not end – but pause long enough to offer meaning?
That’s what transforms personal process into public contribution. That’s how you give shape to something sacred, even if it’s still unfolding. The story may not be over, but your voice is strong enough, and your truth is wise enough, for now.
