BY EMMA NADLER

A few months before my memoir, The Unlikely Village of Eden, hit the shelves I was struck by a sudden, jolting fear. My book is about when life does not go to plan, and about those that helped me along the way during the most desperate moments of my life. Within its pages, I detail how I grappled with loneliness and despair. One night, as I tossed and turned under my comforter, I questioned my decision to be so revealing. As a (then) 44-year-old who has worked as a psychotherapist since my 20’s, I had grown accustomed to keeping much of my life private. Was I divulging too much?

I wondered what it would be like to have my life story, including my wild, enduring grief about my daughter’s rare genetic deletion and the deep truth about my marriage, out there for anyone to see. Once you put something in print, you can’t take it back. Writing a memoir is vulnerable, and I know from my job (and also from being alive) that being vulnerable is not easy. Yet, I wanted to tell this story. It felt like I needed to tell this story. I was, like many, familiar with Brené Brown’s perspective that vulnerability is a superpower. And yet, also like many other people, I thought that this level of openness could be really great! Especially for someone else.

And there were the professional considerations, too. If my clients read my book, would they think less of me? I talked with my therapist; I always say that every good therapist needs a good therapist. He helped me consider the boundaries of my practice, including how my work as an author is a separate sphere. I also asked my friend and mentor who specializes in ethics to review the manuscript. We discussed my plan of how I would approach the book, which mostly meant I wouldn’t unless a client brought it up first.

Eventually, when The Unlikely Village of Eden finally came out, it brought relief. And even more surprisingly, it improved my relationships. Dramatically. It gave my existing circle—even most family members—a clearer picture of my day-to-day life and inner world. I know writing a book is not generally cited as a way to connect more to others, especially since it requires a lot of time alone in a room. It definitely depends on the content—if you’re releasing a cunning exposé, then it won’t help boost friendships—but telling my own story so openly, including the grittiest parts, led to more offers of assistance and tangible empathy. Old friends offered acts of kindness such as hosting my son for a sleepover, and I received more support on holidays, which were (and still are) generally the hardest days. One fellow therapist who I had a casual connection with for many years reached out with a straightforward bid to become closer. That’s what I craved most, to be known and to know others.

Counter to the judgement I had feared, I received more invitations and social connectivity in the months following the book’s release. For my 44^th birthday that year, as I hemmed and hawed about what to do for the occasion, my friend offered to throw a gathering at her home. I can’t say for sure if it was a coincidence, but no one has ever offered to throw me a party before. I accepted this rare, gracious gesture, and the hot August evening—a last minute wine and nosh party—was a delight. Before, during, and after the party, I felt so cared for, even in my grief and occasional lingering loneliness.

Here’s the thing: I felt accepted, despair and all. Readers, friends, and neighbors shared—through lingering conversations, emails, and even some DMs—that they had experienced it, too. Once it was all out in the open, it felt like each treacherous moment I had endured was for something greater than my own pain. I could name a common experience. I could help other people feel less alone. And as a result, paradoxically, I didn’t feel as drawn towards despair.*

Not every caregiver needs to (or should) write a book, but telling our stories and being radically open about these challenges is powerful. This includes everyday conversations about what we go through—the real parts, instead of always adding a positive spin to preserve the listener’s comfort. Most of our work is hidden away in private spaces and therefore unknown to the general public, or even our own confidants. Yet, people should know what caregivers go through—the ache of uncertainty and the glee of tiny wins, the meaning that emerges when giving wholeheartedly to a loved one—along with the ambivalence we often face when sacrificing our own rest, time, and passions. Sharing these experiences matters, in part, because it sparks compassion. And also, because greater recognition of our struggles could lead to desperately needed policy changes.

It was not easy to reveal my utter and gutting fallibility. Yet exposing those raw parts opened up new possibilities to be more understood, connected, and most of all, less isolated. Like the rest of us mere mortals, I was afraid of the ramifications of being vulnerable. Yet, it was well worth it. Words do a lot. Our stories do a lot. Sometimes they even set us free.

*If you are experiencing chronic worry or any other pervasive health condition, talk with your doctor or a qualified mental health professional. This article is for informational purposes only, does not constitute medical advice and is no substitute for professional medical diagnosis, advice or treatment. If you, or someone you know, is experiencing a mental health crisis, get help immediately through your local emergency room or call 988, the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.

Emma Nadler is a psychotherapist, author, and speaker. Her memoir, The Unlikely Village of Eden, is about learning to adapt when life doesn’t go to plan, redefining community, and creating your own imperfect path. She has also written for The Washington Post, Salon, Huffington Post, and Newsweek, among others. In her private practice, she helps people build deeper relationships—including friendships—and cultivate more of what they want, even with life’s inevitable challenges. Learn more at www.emmanadler.com