When the Old Story No Longer Fits

There's a space between what was and what's next. Words heal, stories connect us, and it is never too late to begin again.

Daring to walk not knowing where it might lead.

Two years ago, I began writing on Substack, The Diary of a Southern Author. Quietly. Tentatively. Without a grand plan or a master strategy. I simply opened a door and stepped inside, not knowing where it might lead.

At that time, my life had been shattered. I had lost my husband—my best friend of nearly a lifetime—and if I’m being honest, somewhere in that grief, I had lost myself too. The thought of beginning anything new felt daunting. My confidence had slipped away when I wasn’t looking. Even simple decisions felt heavy. The world felt foggy and unfamiliar.

Starting Without a Map

I felt a tiredness that came from attempting to hold onto a life that no longer fit. We are always in the process of becoming, but I no longer knew what I should become.

No one told me about the identity collapse when friends stop calling as often. Not a dramatic fall-out. Just fewer calls, fewer plans. Nothing prepares us for this slow, quiet recession. Where did they all go? A few moved away and meant to stay in touch, but life swallowed them up. One died sooner than anyone expected, and a couple became grandparents and never had the same space for friends.

When I became slightly too attached to the check-out girls at Harris Teeter, I knew I was in trouble. At least they look you in the eye and ask how you are, even if they don’t really want to know.

The good news is we have stories, we have skills. We are not starting from zero.

I started writing and learned my words mattered. What felt ordinary to me breathed new life into someone else.

I had always loved to write. And I had always loved helping others find their own voices. So I did the only thing that made sense in that season of unknowing—I began to write. And I began to teach.

At first, I wrote without expectation. I didn’t know if anyone out there was paying attention. I was trying to make sense of the days, trying to put language around loss, memory, food, place, and the ache of becoming someone new after being someone else for so long. At the same time, I returned to mentoring others and teaching adults at the University of South Carolina Beaufort, and in small groups, gently guiding students to tell their own stories.

Somehow, helping them find their words began to help me find mine. It was somewhere in that exchange - between giving and receiving - something quiet and powerful happened.

Writing and teaching became a kind of light. At first, it was faint—just a small clearing in the fog. But slowly, steadily, that light grew brighter. Sentence by sentence. Class by class. Story by story. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was finding my way back to myself through the very thing I had loved all along.

Along the way, something unexpected happened. People began to show up. Real people. Kind people. Thoughtful readers who became familiar names, then warm correspondences, and now, friends. I found a place where I could meet them each week—a steady rhythm in a life that had once felt unmoored. The cloudiness began to lift. My days took on a new shape and a new purpose.

The Unexpected Gift of Community

Substack didn’t just provide me with a platform; it gave me a community. It gave me a reason to sit at my desk again with purpose. It restored my feeling of belonging, of being heard, of being valuable. And perhaps most importantly, it reminded me that sharing stories—our own and those we help others tell—is a sacred and healing act.

Why Helping Others Write Matters

Writing has always been the way I make sense of the world. Teaching has always been the way I give something back. Now, the two are forever entwined.

In helping others tell their stories, I found the courage to keep telling my own.

I began with uncertainty. I continue with gratitude. And I move forward with a quiet, steady joy I never expected to feel again.

Your Story Matters

If you are reading this and wondering whether your story matters—whether your voice is worth hearing—let me tell you plainly: it is.

Every life holds meaning.
Every memory carries a thread of truth.
Every story, told with honesty, becomes a gift.

If writing has been nudging at your heart, I encourage you: begin. You don’t need a plan. You only need the willingness to listen to your own life and put one true sentence on the page.

I’ll be right here, doing the same - planning “in-person” classes in the New Year ahead, and classes just as special “online.”

Teaching is my way of giving back what writing gave to me: clarity in confusion, light in grief, and the courage to begin again. It was a lifeline. Writing became the way I stitched myself back together.

I teach because writing is not about perfection—it is about honesty. It is about memory and meaning. It is about listening closely to your own life and trusting that what you’ve lived holds value.

I teach because stories shape us.

Because words heal.

Because it is never too late to begin again.

And because somewhere, right now, someone is wondering if their story matters. I teach so they might discover that it always has and always will.

With love and gratitude,
Pat xxoo