Sharing my story is helping me heal

Personal Essays

Nov 13

As a storyteller for over two decades, I have understood the power of storytelling to build community, promote social change, and communicate ideas, but it was not until this year that I fully realized the healing power of storytelling.

Sharing my story is helping me heal. Perhaps, I hope, it’s benefiting others too.

First, it is deepening my relationships, certainly with family and close friends which is not surprising, but also with people I hardly know—someone I met once at a dinner in Paris, my husband’s friend who is an international arbitrator in Madrid, high school classmates I haven’t been in touch with for decades, people I connected with briefly at a conference, event, or interview. I think because I’ve been willing to share my story in an authentic, vulnerable way through this newsletter, people that I would likely never have heard from otherwise have reached out with genuine concern and heartfelt wishes, and with their own personal stories. Our relationships, which may have remained casual or professional, are now rich with connection, warmth, and love.

By sharing my story I’ve been able to eclipse years it may have taken to develop a friendship, if at all, and shortened the distance, geographic or otherwise, between us. As the saying goes, the shortest distance between two people is a story. It’s hard to put into words what this has meant to me; the unexpected new friendships and sincere support from so many has been incredibly therapeutic. (I’m sure my cancer cells are feeling it too, and fleeing for their lives!)

I was never one for singing what I really feel
Except tonight I'm bringing everything I know that's real
Stars, they come and go, they come fast or slow
They go like the last light of the sun, all in a blaze
And all you see is glory
Hey but it gets lonely there when there's no one here to share
We can shake it away, if you'll hear a story.

Nina Simone, “Stars”

For example, last month when I was in London, the niece of a dear friend came to see me. Before this journey I didn’t know her well, we had met a couple of times at formal gatherings and not spoken in any personal way. She had started following my newsletter after we initially connected, and when I shared my cancer diagnosis she reached out and said she wanted to call me.

She shared with me what helps her get through challenging times—her spiritual practice, tai chi, and a tree outside her window that she leans on for strength; she sent me a rose tea recipe, a Nina Simone song (above), and other inspiring links. She said that if I needed someone to talk to about ‘girl stuff’, my hair, my appearance, things that may sound vain or that I may feel embarrassed to talk about with others, she wanted to be that friend. (She herself has the most beautiful, long, dark hair.) When my hair started falling out in huge clumps and I was feeling miserable, I messaged her; she was the first person I called after I buzzed my hair, the first outside my immediate family to see a photo of my new look. When we met recently in London, we talked for hours about our kids and parents, our innermost feelings and vulnerabilities. We forged a sincere friendship in such a short time—and it all started with sharing my story.

The real difference between telling what happened and telling a story about what happened is that instead of being a victim of our past, we become master of it.

Donald Davis

Each time I write this newsletter, or share my story with someone, I’m crafting and redrafting the way I see myself, my illness, my future—my story. Words matter. When I first learned that I needed chemo, I was heartbroken; in telling a friend I angrily used the word ‘poison’ to describe the process, as I had heard others do. But I’ve stopped myself. Chemo is a killer, yes, but of cells that are trying to destroy me; it is likely vital to my survival, and I’m grateful I was able to endure it without too many side effects. Now as I take my hormone treatment daily, I whisper a healing prayer before I swallow the pill. Yes, I’m feeling side effects, but not as badly as I had feared; and I’m grateful that there is medicine that will help keep this cancer at bay. In telling my story to myself and others, I focus on the availability and efficacy of treatment, so that my body, mind, and soul feel strengthened, not defeated.

The story we tell ourselves is important, the words we use count. Our stories can help us heal, or further our suffering. There’s even science behind this, for example research by Jonathan Adler on the relationship between narrative identity and psychological well-being that I learned about in Annie Brewster’s book on storytelling and healing. But I’m convinced of its therapeutic value based on my own personal experience—and that’s really all I need to know.

All sorrows can be borne if you can put them into a story.

Isak Dinesen

I’m also humbled to learn, through the comments you’ve been sending, that sharing my story is helping some of you. I am grateful that I may be able to provide solace, comfort, or inspiration, and encourage you to reflect on your own stories. I’m also hoping that sharing my story may help other Muslim women talk about breast cancer openly and seek information and treatment, as there continues to be a taboo around this illness. It’s the reason why I agreed to share my first journey with breast cancer with a Muslim women’s magazine when the editor asked if she could publish the letters I was sharing with family and friends.

This too is deeply healing; it gives purpose and meaning to my journey. There is no greater gift than to know that my experience, my words, can help ease someone else’s worries.

(One reader shared this beautiful sentiment: “While you find inspiration in Suleika, I find inspiration in you.”) 😭

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

I turn to other people’s stories for strength and encouragement, and surround myself with inspiring people, books, music, and art. In my last newsletter, “If the Hat Fits”, I shared the story of the resilient and passionate milliner Behida Dolić who I recently met (take a read here if you missed it, she is amazing!). Last week I went to listen to Katie Ledecky, regarded as the greatest female swimmer of all time, and a hometown hero. There’s no doubt she’s suffered pain and disappointment but her talk was focused on gratitude for family, coaches, and teammates; there are chapters in her new book dedicated to each of her grandparents. On Friday, a dear friend and incredible musician Ali Keeler, founder of the Granada-based Al Firdaus Ensemble, came over to see me. He recited in his melodious, soulful voice the verse of healing from the Quran, and said a prayer for me; it moved me to tears. Surrounding myself with exceptional people, inspiring stories, and creative art forms is not only healing, it is profoundly empowering, energizing, and uplifting.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.

Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

While it may not be easy to share a vulnerable story, I encourage you to think about your own story, perhaps jot a few lines down in a journal and see how it may help lessen the load; there’s no need to share it with anyone. The important thing to remember, as Adler reminds us, is that we are not merely unwitting passengers in our story, we are competent drivers of our story. How we tell our story to ourselves and to the world gives us agency and provides us with the most potent panacea of all—hope.

With all my love,

Salma

PS: Some of you have kindly written to say that I should share my reflections and stories in a book, that it can help others heal and get through hard times. I would love to hear your thoughts on what might be helpful. (Someone even offered to host the hypothetical book launch—so kind!).

I hope you’ll continue to share your stories with me, it means the world.