Breaking the Silence: how Sharing Stories Can Help Heal the Heart

"I alone can't change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples."

-Mother Teresa

There's a certain quiet that follows us home after caring, grieving, or simply living through life's constant changes. The kind that hums beneath the surface. In the drive home, the shower streams, the space before sleep. It's the silence of what we carry but rarely speak about. The moments we witness. The losses we absorbed. The tenderness and fatigue that live in the same breath.

We live in a world that moves quickly, where it's easy to keep our heads down and our hearts guarded. Everyone carries something. Grief, worry, memories that ache. Yet few of us speak openly about it. Somewhere along the way, we've learned to keep our pain private, to protect others from our own humanness.

And so, we move beside one another quietly, each wondering if anyone else feels this way.

The Hidden Weight of Isolation

Isolation doesn’t always come in the form of empty rooms or quiet houses.
Sometimes it shows up as sitting beside someone you love and realizing they can’t quite meet you where you are anymore. Sometimes it’s being surrounded by people and still feeling unseen and unheard.

There are many ways loneliness finds us.

In Caregiving

Caregiving is sacred work, but it can also be a solitary journey. We give, we show up, we hold the hands of those who are nearing the end, and in the process, we carry a thousand invisible stories. The world doesn’t always see the emotional weight of watching others decline, or the quiet goodbyes that happen long before the final one. Caregivers often live between worlds, part of the living, yet walking daily beside those who are leaving.

We grow close to those we care for. They become part of our routine and habits, and when the person is gone, it feels as if something is missing. That's because it is.

I recently spoke to a group of facility staff members about this. I expressed to them how other careers don't experience this, losing someone we grow close to routinely. It's not the norm in other people's routine. It's ours. And it can be extremely isolating because we often feel like nobody can relate or understand all of the things we witness on a day-to-day basis.

Not only do we experience the loss of someone, but we bear witness to others' pain, grief, and sadness. That itself, is another weight that we hold in our hearts.

Much like us, loved ones who becomes caregivers share this experience with us. They may not experience it with many people, but to a degree, they understand how isolating caregiving can be. It's a solitary experience, one that we wish to not burden others with. So instead, we keep our silence and smile on. Acting as if all is well and continue about our days.

In Loss

When someone we love dies, time moves differently. The world keeps spinning, and yet our hearts lag behind. Conversations become careful, friends may not know what to say, and so we stop talking about it altogether. The loss becomes internal — a story whispered only to ourselves. And in that silence, grief begins to echo.

During a funeral, we experience the loss all together, but it's the silence in the home, the car, and in the air that consumes us with isolation when we are alone.

There is no linear path for grief. No set timeline of when you should start feeling better. For each person, it's completely unique. But often, I hear how people feel alone when months and years pass and their grief continues. They often express a sense of shame, as if it were a shame that they still feel this despite all the time that has passed. So, they don't speak about it. Fearful that someone may shame them about the fact that they still have yet to get over their loss.

In Transition

Even change that isn’t rooted in death can still carry grief.
Retirement, illness, aging, children moving away. These transitions often create invisible losses. The routines that once gave life meaning shift, and we find ourselves unsure of where we fit. Society doesn’t often make space for these quieter sorrows, yet they too deserve to be honored.

We live in a culture that prizes independence and resilience, often at the cost of vulnerability. We’ve been taught to hold our pain tightly, to keep it from spilling into others’ lives. Yet beneath all that holding, there’s a collective ache — a quiet wondering if anyone else feels this way.

And the truth is, they do.

Isolation is not a flaw within us; it’s the echo of being human. The longing to be seen and understood. But silence doesn’t have to be the end of the story. Sometimes, healing begins when we dare to give our loneliness a voice.

The Healing Power of Storytelling

Long before medicine or therapy, people gathered around fires to tell stories. They spoke of birth and death, joy and sorrow, struggle and grace. Stories have always been how we make sense of life. How we gather what feels broken and turn it into something whole.

Storytelling is more than just sharing events. It’s meaning making.
It allows us to take what was once unspeakable and name it, to pull something beautiful out of what hurt us most. It reminds us that we are not just witnesses to our pain, but we are also its translators, giving shape to what would otherwise remain unseen.

The more we share our stories, the less unseen and unheard we feel. We come to realize that in reality, many others are also experiencing similar feelings. You wouldn't know by just looking at them since society has mastered putting on a facade.

As a nurse and death doula, I’ve witnessed how storytelling changes a room.
A resident begins to share a memory from decades ago. Whether it be a love story, a childhood adventure, and suddenly, the walls soften. Faces light up. Laughter returns. A hush of reverence fills the air, because in that moment, everyone remembers what it means to be alive.

Not only do they remember what it means to be alive, but the first story starts a ripple effect. This effect bounces from one person to the next. Jogging memories, sharing stories, and validating the feelings of others. You can see the great power behind one story shared and the effect it has on others. It allows others to vulnerable. To feel safe. To feel validated.

Because in reality, we as humans wish to be excepted for who we are and how we feel. We aren't asking for others to help change things, but we are asking for others to just listen and hear us out. Sometimes all we need is a place to express how we truly feel without anyone telling us how we should feel or stating, "you poor thing." It's the last thing we need.

When a story is told, two things happen:
The teller feels seen, and the listener feels connected.
It’s in that exchange, the giving and receiving of truth, that healing quietly begins.

Stories are how we make sense of the ache.
They are the bridges between one soul and another, between what was lost and what still remains.

Telling our stories is not indulgence, it’s a form of self-care.
It’s a form of tending to the parts of ourselves that have been carrying too much, too quietly.

When I speak with caregivers, facility staff, and clients about self-care, I remind them that we cannot heal in silence. Sharing our experiences, even briefly, creates release. It helps prevent the kind of quiet burnout that happens when our inner lives go unspoken. It helps ease the mind that something is wrong with us for feeling this way.

For elders, storytelling often reignites purpose. Each story becomes proof that their life mattered and that it still matters. When they share, they aren’t just passing time; they’re passing wisdom, identity, and memory. They’re being witnessed. And like I always say, we aren't here to change how they feel because sometimes that never goes away, but it can help bring validation. It helps them see that they aren't alone in feeling this way.

And for communities, storytelling weaves the fabric of belonging.
Each shared experience becomes a thread that holds us together. In hearing one another’s stories, we remember that we were never meant to heal alone.

Every story told becomes a bridge between generations, between hearts, between the living and those we’ve loved and lost.

Breaking the Silence Together

We heal by remembering. We connect by speaking.
When we share our stories, we start to see one another again not through titles, diagnoses, or circumstances, but through the shared heartbeat of being human.

Breaking the silence doesn’t mean shouting our pain into the world, but you can if you want to.
It means allowing our hearts to be heard, even softly. Because in that softness, something sacred happens. We realize we were never walking alone.

When we speak, we remind one another that our stories matter.
And when we listen, we say: You are not alone.

Healing doesn’t begin with grand gestures. It begins with small openings. A word, a sentence, a memory spoken aloud.

Here are gentle ways to begin breaking the silence:

• Speak a memory. Tell someone about a moment that still lives inside you, not just the hard ones, but the joyful, funny, ordinary ones too.

• Write it down. Journaling isn’t about perfect words; it’s about making space for honesty. Even a few sentences can bring clarity. Here you can be completely honest because you don't have to share it with anyone if you choose.

• Gather in small circles. Create moments in community at a facility, at home, at a coffee shop, or where people can share without judgment. There are many support groups in our community.

• Practice presence. Listen deeply when someone tells you their story. Sometimes, the most healing response is simply, “I hear you.” Sometimes, that can be stated in silence and through active listening. Remember that sometimes the best thing you can do is say nothing at all and just listen.

You don’t have to tell your whole story at once. Even one honest sentence can be a light in the dark.

A Note From Me

Over the past month, I’ve had the honor of giving educational seminars and hosting grief groups. These experiences have offered me a great deal to reflect upon. Again and again, I’ve witnessed how many people carry their grief quietly, and how often that grief is accompanied by the same thread, isolation.

In my own years as a nurse, I’ve known that isolation intimately. Standing at the bedside of those nearing the end of life has been both sacred and heavy. There are moments I’ve tried to describe to others the moments of loss, of beauty, of heartbreak, but only to realize that unless someone has stood in that same space, words can fall short. And when they do, the loneliness deepens.

Yet when I speak with others who have walked similar paths such as caregivers, grievers, and those navigating life’s uncertain turns. something begins to lift. There’s comfort in the mutual understanding, a reminder that none of us are truly alone in these feelings. In those moments, I feel safe, heard, and gently reconnected with the world around me.

That’s the heart behind the one-on-one sessions I do as well. I am able to create space for people to speak their truths, to make sense of the things that feel too heavy to name alone, and to find meaning within the messiness of change and loss. Together, we slow down, reflect, and begin to uncover the wisdom that lives within their stories.

I truly believe this is an important part of the healing process. Whether that be in healing grief, difficulty with changes, or from the heavy toll of caregiving. As someone who has experienced a great number of hardships in life, I have found the power in authenticity. Speaking your truth and telling your story. I personally understand what it's like to feel in total isolation, aside from my life as a registered nurse. As if no one could ever understand the pain you bear deep inside. And like I said before, in a society that has mastered putting on a facade, it makes it quite difficult to be your genuine self and to be authentic about how you feel.

If you’ve been feeling isolated in your own season of grief, caregiving, or transition, I invite you to reach out. It can be to me, a friend, someone you trust, or a support group.
Sometimes healing begins simply by being witnessed and heard.

May peace find you in your troubles, pain, and healing.