Is your story ready for the stage?

Something I've been noticing with a few of my clients lately, and I think it's worth talking about.

They come in with a story. A powerful one. Something they've moved through, learned from, grown because of. And they're eager to share it. They should share it. But as we start to dig in together, something becomes clear: that story isn't quite as healed as it felt.

And that matters. A lot.

Here's what I mean. When a wound hasn't fully healed, the scab hasn't formed yet. The tissue underneath is still raw. And when you bring that story onto a stage, even with the best intentions, there's a real risk of it being reopened. Right there. In front of everyone.

That can do two things.

It can retraumatize you. And it can make it really hard for your audience to receive what you're trying to give them.

I want to be really clear here, because this is important: I am not saying hide your emotion. Emotion belongs on the stage. Emotion is what connects us. That's not what this is about.

This is about the difference between a story that moves people forward and a story that pulls everyone, including you, into an unfinished chapter.

I know this intimately. My father passed away in 2011, and the story around his death was one of the most personal things I carried. It took me close to ten years before I felt like it was truly healed enough to share. Part of that was my own healing. But part of it was something else: I felt a deep responsibility to protect the people in that story, and to make sure I was honoring it, not just telling it. I had to know it was truly mine to tell. And even then, I didn't just walk onto a stage and tell it. I tested it slowly, carefully, almost tenderly.

First, I told one person. And I noticed how I felt.

Then I told a few trusted friends over drinks. And I noticed how I felt.

Eventually, I got up at a story slam in front of about 40 people. I asked that it not be recorded, and that it stay in that room. And I noticed how I felt.

From there, it became a performance piece with actors. Then a solo piece. Each time, a new audience. A new container. And each time, the same question: how does this feel?

There's an Allen Ginsberg quote I love: notice what you notice. That became my mantra through the whole process. Not "is this story good enough" or "will people like it." Just: what am I noticing in my own body when I tell this?

That's the compass.

So if you have a story you're sitting with, one that feels important but maybe not quite ready, here's what I want you to know. You don't have to protect yourself by locking it away. And you don't have to prove you're healed by putting it on the biggest stage you can find.

You get to go slowly. You get to choose your room.

A small, intimate gathering of people who already know and love you can hold something different than a room full of strangers. Neither is wrong. But they're not the same.

The question isn't whether to share your story. It's where, and with whom, and what do you notice when you do.

Your most vulnerable stories deserve the right stage. And so do you.