“Change One Person and You Change the World”

Why I fight my own monsters in order to write openly.

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

There’s a question that keeps rearing its ugly little head, and I can’t quite get it out of mine: What will people get out of reading my work? 

This might be my perpetual self-doubt talking, which I’ve been carrying around since sometime in my teens. That lingering question quickly leads to: “Is my writing going to resonate with people?” and “What can I say that hasn’t already been said?”

In response, you might say that I have my own unique experience, my personal perspective. This is true—nobody else has that. But will my words resonate with my audience?

The answers to those questions became clear after asking yet another question that arose from reading my personal essay to my peers in my writing course with Brian Henry (Quick Brown Fox).

In this piece, I describe my two encounters with cancer and how the experience gave me a whole new perspective, leading me back to my long-hidden desire to write. It’s a story I’ve needed to tell for a long time, but I felt vulnerable as I read it. Which prompted me to ask: Is my piece too personal?

Brian’s answer made a lot of sense: the specifics of my experience may not be the same as anyone in the audience, but nobody’s life is without struggle or trauma of some kind—a fact that makes my narrative relatable. So no, it’s not too personal. This explanation gave me the nudge I needed to put my work out there, which means putting myself out there.

As if to cement this idea, the very next day I heard the author and academic, Arthur Brooks, say something that really hit home:

In every man is the whole world—change one person and you change the world. 

He seemed to be speaking directly to me, which further illustrated his point. In a world where numbers matter, where we count likes, views, comments and shares, it feels so freeing, so authentic and purposeful to write from the heart, to write for the simple goal of sharing my story in hopes of reaching just one person. 

I can’t count how many times I’ve read a piece and thought, Yes, I feel that too! I’m not the only one going through this. It tells me that I’m not crazy, I’m just human. 

After reading my piece, a fellow student told me she had felt exactly as I had after I’d been given my diagnosis but hadn’t yet told my family. The immense sense of burden and loneliness resonated with her as I shared this. We made a connection not just to each other, but to what makes us human. 

That part of my story also points to the power of expressing something that needs to be said—and to the pain that’s caused when it gets stuffed down. The worst days of my cancer journey were the ones spent holding onto that terrible secret, waiting for the “right” time to spill the news. It was like waiting to exhale. And once I did, the breath started flowing again, like it always does. That weight didn’t seem quite as heavy once I let others carry it with me. 

I long to share my own experiences. It is cathartic, yes, but more than that—if my words reach just one person, if they connect that person to the human experience and remind them that they aren’t alone, as if to say, “I struggle too,” then I’ve done what I set out to do.

So to answer that dreaded question: What will people get out of reading my work? I’ll borrow the words of the great C.S. Lewis: “We read to know that we are not alone.” 

Thank you for reading. If you feel inclined to comment, I’d love to read your thoughts—and to know I’m not alone!