Things I Never Meant to Say Out Loud

"I'd hate to say this, but your family is messed up."

I stared at the text message from my co-worker and close friend, Sammy, confused. What was she talking about? Sure, my family is messed up, but we hadn’t talked about them in weeks. What prompted this?

I sat there, tired and already nursing a headache, trying to make sense of it. My brain flipped through recent conversations, emails, and anything that might explain the sudden comment. Nothing came to mind.

Finally, I gave in and messaged her back.

"What are you talking about?"

I let my phone clatter onto the desk and turned my chair toward my inbox, hoping to distract myself. In the chaos of everyday life, I had more than enough to worry about. On top of work deadlines and a laundry list of adulting responsibilities, I was already doing the emotional heavy-lifting of trying to untangle myself from the dysfunction that is my family.

Therapy had become my refuge. As part of that process, I started documenting the memories that shaped me—the ones that left me second-guessing my worth, unable to hold boundaries, and constantly searching for reassurance. Years of gaslighting, narcissism, and silent expectations had left deep grooves in my identity. My parents and sister had always demanded that I shrink to fit the version of me they needed.

To help process it all, I kept two main files saved to my desktop: one labeled “Therapy Notes,” which included my memory documentation and a draft of the no-contact letter I’d sent months ago… and another labeled “Short Stories,” where I channeled pain into fiction. It was safer that way. Or so I thought.

I typically write short stories when a prompt sparks something in me. Lately, that’s been happening almost every week. As I created distance from my parents and sister, I noticed my confidence and creativity growing with each passing month. I was finally starting to find myself.

The more stories I wrote, the more traction they gained. And with every like, every comment, and every message from a reader who resonated with my words, I felt a little bolder. Eventually, I gathered the courage to self-publish two books on Amazon—an accomplishment that, even now, I can hardly believe.

I was proud of the direction my life was taking. Someday, I thought, maybe I could even make a living from my writing. For now, it was still just a dream—but not an impossible one. And in the meantime, I kept showing up, creating stories on The Writer’s Table, and celebrating the simple, powerful fact that I finally had enough confidence to put myself out there.

A notification buzzed across my phone screen, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was a message from Sammy.

“I saw your newest post on The Writer’s Table. I was expecting another work of fiction, but damn… you really put it all out there this week.”

I froze. My stomach dropped. Without thinking, I opened a new tab and logged into my Writer’s Table profile. I had just finished a new mystery story and had fully intended that to be my next post.

When I clicked on my list of short stories, I saw the title I expected: Whispers on Whitmore Lane. Relieved, I clicked it open, assuming my latest mystery was live. But the moment the page loaded, a wave of anxiety crashed over me. This wasn’t my story.

Somehow, I’d gotten my folders mixed up—and instead of uploading fiction, I had posted my therapy memories. Worse, they had been approved for publication. I stared in horror as line after line of deeply personal, raw documentation filled the screen—every wound, every betrayal laid bare.

Dad was mad because I hadn’t mentioned to him the printer was fixed and he needed it that day. We were driving somewhere when he made me get out of the car on a lightly traveled highway and made me walk home. It took me hours to walk home.

Mom said my new shirt made me look like a slut. It was just a plain tank top—barely more revealing than a T-shirt.

I saved for months to go on a study abroad trip. My sister complained I was seeing more of the world than her. Instead of defending me, my parents paid for her to visit the same country.

I showed up to a family barbecue and Dad was already screaming so loudly that neighbors came to their windows to watch.

Each entry was a reason I ended up the way I am—second-guessing myself, struggling to hold boundaries, constantly needing reassurance. These were the things I’d only ever shared in therapy. And now, they were out there. For strangers. For readers. Maybe even for them. I couldn’t breathe.

It already took everything in me to share fiction with the world, but now the world was seeing the ugliest truths I never intended to expose. And there were comments. Reactions. Engagement. Like a car crash I couldn’t look away from, I kept scrolling, bracing myself for more.

I expected comments like Sammy’s—blunt but supportive, calling out how messed up my family is. But I also feared something worse: that people would respond like my family always had, telling me I was overreacting, ungrateful, or that I somehow deserved the way I was treated.

But I wasn’t ready for what I found next. The comments didn’t tear me apart. They built something. A dialogue was unfolding, filled with support, empathy, and shared pain.

“Take care of yourself. You can’t heal in the same environment that made you sick.”

“It’s clear your family didn’t protect or value you. There’s nothing wrong with stepping away while you heal.”

“I thought I was the only one. Reading this made me feel less alone.”

There wasn’t a single hateful comment.

I still felt the urge to pull the post down. These were my private memories, not meant for public consumption—but strangely, I found myself wanting to respond to every single person first. It wasn’t often that I felt seen. And even rarer to feel supported—especially by complete strangers.

I knew the need for reassurance was creeping back in. But for once, I didn’t hate myself for needing it. In this strange, unexpected moment, I was grateful for it.

Still, I knew this post wouldn’t stay up forever. But before I took it down, I wanted to say thank you.

I replied to every single comment, expressing my gratitude and reading through the stories that others had shared. What began as an accident was turning into something I hadn’t expected: connection. Validation. A sense of solidarity I’d never had growing up.

One commenter wrote about going no-contact with her mom and brother. Afterward, her brother went on a livestream on social media claiming their mom used to take her on lavish shopping sprees, and she was just being “ungrateful.” The truth? There were never any shopping sprees. Her mom never spent money on her. It was just something her mother said to her brother, and he believed it—no questions asked.

Another person shared that, although he no longer speaks to his mom due to her constant boundary violations, he still tries to meet his dad for lunch in a neutral location. But his mom always seems to “drop by”—claiming she just needs to ask something to his dad, yet she was clearly there to remind him that she still exists, still hovers, and still pulls at the strings.

My post had accidentally become a de facto support group—a place where people finally admitted things they’d been afraid to say out loud. Part of me still wanted to remove it; it was never meant to be public. But now, I found myself wishing I could at least lock it, or mark it “private,” while preserving the conversation.

My mind was already scrambling. How could I keep this dialogue alive once the story came down? Then a new notification popped up.

A comment from a YouTube vlogger I followed stopped me in my tracks. His name was Rick. He created content about narcissism and family trauma. I had no idea he even used The Writer’s Table, let alone how he came across my post. I wasn’t one of the more well-known writers on the site. He asked if he could either feature my story or interview me on his podcast.

I was genuinely intrigued. I never intended for those vulnerable memories to be public, but now that they were... what if they could help someone else? Still, part of me hesitated. Not everyone would understand my perspective, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the criticism that might come with being that visible.

I decided to call Sammy. I needed to talk it through with someone who understood.

“I wondered if you meant to post that or not,” Sammy said after I explained everything. “You’ll have to keep me posted on what you decide with the podcast. That could be huge.”

I agreed and told her I’d sleep on it. My emotions were still too raw to make a decision that night. Before the moment passed, I made sure to follow everyone who had commented on my post—just in case I wanted to reach back out—and then, finally, I took the post down.

If I was going to share my truth, I wanted it to be on my terms—not as a raw, unfiltered list of pain meant for my therapist’s eyes, but as something more intentional. Something mine. Something that I could shape, own, and maybe even use to help someone else. If I was going to share my story, it would be in a more controlled way—not as scattered notes from survival, but as a voice reclaimed.

The next morning, after a deep breath and a long cup of coffee, I messaged Rick. I asked what being on his podcast—or sharing my story more broadly—would actually entail.

About an hour later, he wrote back:

Hi there—first off, thank you so much for getting back to me. Your post was incredibly moving, and I think it resonated because it was so raw, honest, and beautifully articulated. So many people are afraid to tell the truth about what they've experienced in toxic family systems, and your story gave others permission to do the same.

If you’re open to it, I’d love to either feature an anonymous reading of your post (with names/details changed), or invite you onto the podcast for a recorded conversation. We can absolutely keep things anonymous if you prefer.

Here’s what the podcast process usually entails:

We’d set up a time to chat—typically about 30–45 minutes.

You can share only what you’re comfortable with. If anything feels too personal, we skip it.

I’ll send you a list of general questions beforehand so you’re not caught off guard.

You’ll have the option to review or approve the final version before anything airs.

This story won’t be sensationalized. It’s about truth-telling, healing, and giving others a sense that they’re not alone. You have total agency here. And if at any point you change your mind, I respect that.

Let me know what feels right for you, and thanks again for your courage.

I felt at peace with the direction this was heading, so I wrote back to Rick and told him I’d be comfortable with him sharing my story anonymously—and that I’d be open to an interview in the format he described. After sitting with everything in a clearer headspace, I realized something: I was done shrinking. Done staying silent just because certain family members expected it of me.

Writing had always been my way of reclaiming my voice, and I was finally ready to use it—not just in private, but out loud.

Rick and I set up a date and time for our conversation, and he sent over a list of questions beforehand. Every one of them felt thoughtful, respectful, and fair. When the day arrived, I was nervous—terrified, really—that my voice would be out there for anyone to hear. But Rick made it easy. He was kind, grounded, and genuinely compassionate. And more than that, I was hopeful. Hopeful that someone out there—maybe lots of someone’s—might hear my story and see themselves in it.

At the end of the recording, Rick paused for a moment, then said something I never expected.

“It sounds like you’ve done a lot of work on your healing journey. Honestly, you’ve got a voice that could really guide people who are just starting theirs. Have you ever considered writing a book about your experience? I’d be happy to put in a good word with my contacts at Fox & Finch Publishing.”

My heart nearly stopped. Fox & Finch Publishing. That Fox & Finch? Was this real?

My thoughts started spinning. Could I actually realize the dream I’d quietly held for so long—to become a full-time writer and maybe even make a living doing what I loved?

The irony wasn’t lost on me. The story I never meant to share—the one that exposed my deepest wounds—had become the very thing that opened doors. It brought me support. A podcast interview. And now… maybe even a book deal. The piece I thought would break me might just be the one that set me free.

For me, there was no hesitation. I responded back to Rick, “I’d be honored if you could put in a good word for me. I am absolutely interested in writing about my journey, and I regret not speaking out sooner.”

Honestly, I was open to writing whatever they thought would resonate. If the self-help angle didn’t pan out, I’d be just as thrilled to write fiction. I had faith in my voice now, and I believed I could succeed either way.

I sat for a moment, letting it all settle in. I felt proud—truly proud—of how far I’d come. The voice in my head that used to whisper doubts and tear me down… it was quiet now. No longer rising up to haunt me.

And this unexpected twist of fate? It didn’t seem like a disaster anymore.

It felt like a gift.

Somehow, through it all, I was on the brink of realizing the dream I once thought was impossible. And the best part? The people who used to doubt me, silence me, or talk down to me—they weren’t in the way anymore. They couldn’t stop me. Not this time.