There’s a particular kind of fear that rises when you start writing a story that lives close to your own wounds. It’s not the fear of being judged or misunderstood — though that’s there too. It’s something deeper. Something quieter. Something that feels like standing at the edge of a truth you’ve spent years learning how to carry.

Writing my first book has brought me face‑to‑face with parts of myself I thought I had already made peace with. Old hurts. Old memories. Old versions of me who survived things I didn’t always have the language for. And even though I’m writing fiction, the emotional terrain is familiar. The ache is familiar. The tenderness is familiar.

There’s vulnerability in that.
A trembling.
A hesitation.
A whisper that asks, Are you sure you want to go there?

But there’s also strength — the kind that comes from knowing I’m not writing from the middle of the wound anymore. I’m writing from the scar. From the healing. From the place where I can look back and say, I made it through that. I survived that. I grew from that.

And that changes everything.

The fear doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. It becomes a companion instead of a barrier. A reminder that what I’m creating matters. That it’s real. That it’s rooted in something true.

Because the stories that stay with us — the ones that linger long after the last page — are the ones written with honesty. Not perfection. Not distance. Honesty.

And honesty requires vulnerability.

So I’m letting myself write close to the wound. Not to reopen it, but to honor it. To give voice to the parts of my story that shaped me. To offer readers a place where they might see themselves, their own pain, their own resilience reflected back.

It’s scary.
It’s tender.
It’s brave.

And it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.

— Leigh C. Mitchell