My Vogue Article is Why I Write

(And not just because it's in Vogue. But that was awesome.)

The first time I felt the power of sharing on the page was when I published my raw, open, vulnerable essay, “My Weight, Myself: Do 10 Extra Pounds Really Make Me a Less Worthy Person?” in Seventeen magazine in 1993.

Not only did people I never would have expected come up to me and thank me for my thoughts, telling me how much they related , but the magazine reported back that they’d received more letters (this was before email) about this piece than any other. They even ran comments in subsequent issues. I’d hit a nerve. My sharing made other people feel less alone. Understood.

This morning, at age 47, I got a DM from someone I’ve never met about a very different article I wrote that came out earlier this week: “I just wanted to thank you for your article…. You so perfectly articulated every fear I have… and it made me feel seen and less alone. Thank you.”

To which I responded: “This is literally why I write!”

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I get really nervous putting it all out there.

When this week’s article in Vogue, “I Had to Lie to Find True Love,” came out, I bit my lip and said to my husband, “Oh gosh. I hope this wasn’t a mistake.” It was personal. I shared about the nine months when I was getting separated and divorced… and falling in love. I braced myself for negative comments. Excoriation. Condemnation. I’d put my happiness on the table and made it an essential part of motherhood. Was that even allowed?

And yet. The comments have reassured and surprised me. Moved me to tears. Fortified my resolve.

This is what I do. This is what I’ve been doing for 30 years. I open up. I let people into the darkest, most shameful, humorous, honest places of my thoughts and feelings and find, instead of censure, appreciation.

We don’t have too many places to share as we get older. Our marriages remain behind closed doors. There is no school cafeteria to sit around every day and confess. We are busy, trying to hold up so much, including, at times, the facade that it is easy or that we know what we’re doing.

We don’t know what we’re doing.

None of us have done life before. None of us have navigated all the milestones from grief to passion to fear to aging — until we do. We need each other more than we think and more than we let on. We (certainly I) don’t often make time for coffee dates with old friends, those therapeutic balms, in service to our jobs, our kids, our parents, our marriages, our 8,000 obligations. But we can turn to the (online) page. I sometimes literally nod or say, “Me too!” out loud like a lunatic as I read what others confess.

I share to connect, not to be exhibitionist but to be there for others — which then helps me. For whatever reason, this style of writing comes naturally to me and always has. My thoughts transformed. Captured. So far all of you out there who read what I share, including this week’s essay and say, “I feel like I know you,” you do. And you’re helping me, too.