The Pain We Carry
Pain has a way of isolating us. We go through our days hiding it, keeping quiet about it, as though speaking it aloud might make it too real, too heavy to bear. But the truth is, we’re all carrying something—grief, regret, heartache, shame—tucked just beneath the surface.
During the most recent Moth StorySlam event here in Atlanta, Al Wiseman, the host, commented on how cathartic storytelling can be. His words came on the heels of several raw, vulnerable stories—stories that elicited strong emotions and filled the room with a deep sense of empathy and connection. By the time Al shared his observation, we had all already felt this unspoken truth: storytelling doesn’t just heal the storyteller; it connects us and helps us all heal.
In his beautiful book Inciting Joy, Ross Gay says it this way: “In addition to the fact that we all die, the most salient or unifying feature of we the living is that we cannot survive without help.” This truth—that we need each other—feels so obvious, yet it’s easy to forget in the midst of the chaos of our individual struggles. But then, someone shares their story, and we’re reminded: we need each other; we’re not meant to carry our pain alone.
Listening to the stories at these events has reminded me that pain is never a solitary thing. We think it separates us, but the reality is that it brings us closer. When we hear it spoken aloud, it becomes a bridge. When we hear someone else’s vulnerability, we realize: Oh, I know what that feels like. We’re all in this together.
Storytelling: The Act of Sharing
While sharing our stories doesn’t erase the pain, it certainly helps by bringing it out of the shadows. When we speak it aloud, we give it shape, and suddenly, we’re not carrying it alone anymore. There’s something very transformative and healing about that experience.
The stories shared on Monday night were raw and brave. People stood before a packed theater—filled with strangers, friends, and loved ones—and revealed parts of themselves that many of us might never dare to speak aloud. There was no posturing, no polish—just truth.
The theme for the night was “Silver Linings.” We heard gut-wrenching stories of losing loved ones, facing that dreaded diagnosis, being laid off, surviving abuse, and navigating the deep ache of feeling unloved or abandoned. These were stories of pain and resilience, experiences no one would wish on another. And yet, hearing them told—spoken aloud with courage and vulnerability—was strangely comforting and beautiful.
Because here’s the magic: the more personal the stories, the more universal they feel. By the time the final storyteller takes the stage at these events, the room is always buzzing—not only with excitement over the performances, but with connection. When people speak their truth, it gives the rest of us permission to do the same. It reminds us that no matter what we’ve been through, we’re not alone.
Why It Matters
Hearing people tell their stories is more than entertainment. It’s a reminder of what it means to be human. In a world that seems more connected than ever, we often feel so alone. Coming together in person (IRL) to share our struggles and joys creates deep bonds that the digital realm will never be able to offer.
As we close out 2024, I can’t stop thinking about the way storytelling transforms not only a room, but people. Monday night wasn’t just about hearing stories—it was about hearing and seeing each other. The courage of people sharing their difficult truths sparked something in all of us who were present: compassion, understanding, and even hope.
I’ve been listening to The Moth Podcast on and off for over 15 years, but it wasn’t until this year that I finally went to a live event—and I will never be the same. I’ve heard some incredible stories, I’ve been on the stage and told my own story, but most importantly, I’ve met some of the most wonderful people. I look forward to getting to know them more, and hopefully, friendships will blossom from shared life experiences and a mutual love of storytelling.
So, as we approach the end of one year and move into the next, I hope we hold onto this truth: our stories matter. The messy ones, the joyful ones, the ones we’re still figuring out. Sharing them—whether with a friend over coffee or a theater full of listeners—can heal us in ways we don’t expect.
Because when we tell our stories, we don’t just unburden ourselves. We invite others to say, Me too.
And in that connection, there’s relief, there’s healing, and there’s joy.