Truth Emerging Through Stillness and Deep Writing

Finding story inside events

Deep writing revealed the following scene to be a turning point in both the manuscript and my life. I had focused on the violence of the night before, not the moment where everything shifted.

Only long, uninterrupted writing sessions gave me the nervous-system capacity to stay with what had actually been happening that morning—the morning after my first husband tried to kill me, with our six-year-old son watching.

Oh, I remembered the events, in fact, I couldn’t forget them.

Writing deep didn’t reveal new information.

It revealed the meaning I had been writing around.

What follows is an excerpt from Even When I Stayed—also published as the standalone essay “Mirrors Do Not Lie.”

The next morning, I got up as usual and prepared to go out in service—as if nothing had happened.

Standing in the bathroom—bleach-blonde hair wet from the shower and pulled into a high ponytail—I couldn’t make sense of the woman staring back at me. She was a twenty-six-year-old Jehovah’s Witness who trusted God, the Machine, and her marriage—until the marks on her face proved trust had been a mistake.

On some level, I understood the reflection had to be me—because mirrors don’t lie.

Lying is what people do: small lies, big lies, black lies, white lies.

Lies we tell to convince ourselves and others.

Lies about belonging, committing, loving.

Lies that say the red and blue and purple handprints on my face, arms, and neck don’t mean something is very wrong.

We tell ourselves lies that help us forgive and excuse.

Lies to hide our worthlessness.

Lies that turn our suffering into strength.

Lies that whisper someday we’ll be safe—

safe like wives on the dance floor at Christian weddings, held close, swaying to When a Man Loves a Woman, Percy Sledge’s voice rich with passion, crooning words about husbands who would never dream of harming their wives.

We lie to ourselves until we can lie no more.

Until the only way to survive is to admit the truth:

I was not a martyr.

I was a victim of spousal abuse.

I shut my eyes, bowed my head. “Jehovah, I know I can’t ask you to make this go away. But please, please, give me the strength to go out in service so I can get through today.”

I leaned into the mirror to begin the all-too-familiar process of disguising my reality, hiding evidence I was not loved and never would be.

1. Choose the best tool: Cream concealer gives better coverage than stick, gel, or liquid.

2. Squeeze a small amount onto the ring finger of your non-dominant hand.

3. Softly dab onto all areas in need of camouflage.

4. Be gentle: treat your delicate skin carefully to “avoid damage.”

5. If it doesn’t do the job: switch to the stick and repeat steps 2–4.

You’re done when there are enough layers to keep your secret and you can put the hurt behind you and get on with your day.

For me, that meant dropping Benjamin off at school, getting Justin ready for service. If I kept to our daily routine, no one would know our lives were anything but normal.

But I did.

—

Now, I protect long writing spaces not just for productivity, but for honesty.

This weekend, we’re holding space for writers who want to work together, in sustained time and collective stillness.

For more information and Zoom link: Marathon Cowrite