I don’t think I’ve ever felt as sorry for myself as I felt on that rainy October afternoon more than a decade ago. Sitting in a well-appointed waiting room in downtown Seattle’s tallest building, I waited for my name to be called to see my attorney to draw up the parenting plan that would designate how my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I would divide our time with our two young daughters. I felt like misery was rolling off me in waves, and while I might have intellectually understood that other people on the planet also had struggles, it did not feel at that moment like anything existed other than my own sadness.

And then I saw her.

On a sofa on the other side of the waiting room sat a woman I will never forget. She was perhaps 60 years old and weighed maybe 95 pounds. She was dressed in a pale, pink Chanel-style suit with white piping. The suit was loose on her, and my guess was that at one time it fit her perfectly. But now she sat perfectly straight in her too-loose suit, clenching a large box of papers on her lap. Although well coifed, her hair was so thin that I could easily see the outline of her scalp. I wondered if she was going through chemotherapy and a divorce, and in that instant of wondering, I was jolted from my self-pity as if I’d touched an electric fence. I instantly became aware that my suffering was not uncommon, that I was now part of a group larger than myself, a group who lived with terrible losses they’d never signed up for.

In that notebook, I wrote a brief description of the woman with her thin hair and her heavy box of legal papers.

And in that moment of realization, I pulled a notebook from my purse. In that notebook, I wrote a brief description of the woman with her thin hair and her heavy box of legal papers. That note was the first of many I took over the next few months. I had no goal in mind with these notes; I was motivated to take them because every time I jotted down an observation or an image related to my divorce, I couldn’t help but notice that I felt just a little bit better, just a little less of a victim and a little more of a creator, a person who could assign meaning and order to absurd chaos. My suffering became less, not just because of the passing of time but because I was cataloguing my experience with language.

Eventually, my notes became the memoir How to Sleep Alone in a King-Size Bed, and I began teaching adult learners how to begin writing their own stories in my memoir class. Like me, many of my students have written their way through recovery from traumatic events and losses. And like me, many of these new writers have come to understand their connection to the greater human story through writing the very specific story of their own individual losses.

Recognizing our grief as a common experience is just one of the many therapeutic aspects of writing. When we write down our experiences, we often feel immediately lighter, less burdened by grief’s weight. Writing also gives us the opportunity to archive those special experiences we want to protect and memorialize. Skill or “talent,” or even the ability to spell well, are not required to employ writing as a strategy in the healing process. Writing our way through recovery is available to all of us — no prior writing experience necessary.

Here are some ideas to get you started writing about your own experiences:

• Make a timeline of your life. Take a piece of paper and turn it horizontally. Divide the page into decades and draw onto the page a timeline of your life that includes dots marking important events and turning points. Pick one of these turning points and set the timer for 10 minutes, then write without stopping or editing.
• Write about times you’ve trusted yourself and when you doubted yourself. Take another piece of paper and divide it vertically this time. At the top of the left-hand column, write the words “Trusted.” And at the top of the right-hand column, write the words “Doubted.” Next, brainstorm a list of events and decisions for each column. Then pick one and write about it for 10 minutes.
• Make a list of personal and professional risks you have taken over your lifetime. Again, pick one idea from the list and write about it. The stories of our risks are often very interesting and inspirational and can help us to appreciate our strengths.

In memoir, our narrator becomes the hero of our own journey, and we can’t help but appreciate the obstacles we’ve overcome and the skills we’ve gained in facing various life challenges.

Don’t Get Tripped Up on These Common Stumbling Blocks:

• Don’t focus on the quality of the writing. Who cares if the writing is “good enough”? Focus on your own pleasure of writing forgotten memories and the relief of writing down thoughts you’ve been carrying in your head for too long.
• Just focus on your own version of events. Some writers get blocked thinking about how others might take offense at their opinions or may possess a different understanding of shared events. Remember that you have a right to your version — just as they have a right to theirs.
• Ignore that voice in your head that says, “Who cares?” and “So what?” Recording your perceptions and stories helps you relieve grief and gain perspective on your experiences. The answer to the question, “Who cares?” is “I do!”

The beauty of writing as a means of recovering from life’s losses is that it’s always available to us — no appointments necessary. Sometimes, simply jotting down a note on a piece of scratch paper is enough to make us feel just a little bit better.