Breaking the Chain: When Writing a Memoir Isn’t Enough

Understanding the Power and Limits of Telling Our Stories

Survivors of trauma are often encouraged to write a memoir as a way to heal, raise awareness, and create change. Some survivors always felt they were supposed to write a book, and others were told, ‘you should write a book.’

“If we think we ‘should’ do something, it probably means we have the ghost of a parent, authority figure, or third-grade teacher whispering in our ear.” – Notaras, K., The Book You Were Born to Write, 2018.

I wasn’t encouraged externally; I had written a mission ‘to be a voice in the silent landscape of sibling sexual abuse.’ When I first wrote that in 2011, I had no idea I would spend four years writing a memoir. Initially, I pictured sharing my story on stage. It was in a speaking workshop in 2017 that I first shared the words from the ‘priest moment’ in Resolve. Beyond that moment, I had no idea that everything else included in Resolve would emerge, nor that I was going to find so many incredible resources that would aid my healing.

Initially, I wasn’t sure if I was writing a memoir or a self-help book, leaning towards a memoir so I would share what I experienced and learned. In March 2019, when I wrote in my journal I’m going to write my story, I hadn’t even begun therapy—the real work. I was soon going to learn much more about myself!

Over four years of drafting and redrafting, I kept uncovering truths, healing, learning, and growing, even while proofreading the final manuscript before printing. Resolve became a living experience, not just a lived experience poured onto the page. What an unexpected, incredible journey!

Writing was challenging, empowering, and cathartic, allowing me to reclaim my voice. Yet, in quiet moments, doubts surfaced: Was I doing enough? Would it create change, or was it just processing my own experiences? My inner critic whispered harshly, “Who do you think you are? You’re not an author.” It was shame, trying to keep me stuck, questioning if storytelling alone could truly prevent or acknowledge ongoing harm. These hard questions led me to explore deeper layers of my story and its potential impact.

Are We Changing Anything or Just Documenting Our Past?

Sharing a survival story is one thing; breaking the cycle of harm is another. Too often, trauma stories are seen as compelling personal journeys rather than urgent calls to action. Readers might feel moved, but then return to their lives, thinking, ‘I didn’t even know that (SSA) was a thing! It couldn’t possibly happen in my family, in my neighbourhood, in our school community.’ End of story and the harm continues.

What would the answer be if we asked ourselves: Are we writing to process our pain, or to positively influence people to start conversations or to change the lives of others? What outcome is our book really going to deliver?

Dissociation in the Act of Writing

For some survivors, writing about trauma can incorporate an act of emotional survival. It allows exploration while keeping distance from the full weight of pain. Sometimes survivors choose ghostwriters, creating even more distance, which risks diluting the raw authenticity and connection that comes when a survivor connects their mind with their heart, through their hand, holding the pen themselves.

I feel we’ve all experienced this in reading one story or another, written at a ‘surface level’, where we of lived experience will be reading the words, yet also seeing in our minds what’s going on beneath the surface, plus reading what’s not been written, and been missed out, all at the same time. Have you read a book like that?

I looked into that and found out that kind of writing is an example of ‘where dissociation and compartmentalisation can show up, not just in recalling events but in how the author interprets their power, not seeing the possible actions that can be taken or the learning within them. If compassion or depth of emotion is missing, dissociation might be at play’ (Herman, 1992).

It took 25 revisions of my manuscript, with focused scans asking: Was I truthful? Was my mind or heart speaking? Who is writing this section – little me, or adult me, adult me seeing what little me experienced with compassion, or who else? Was I skimming the surface? Reading that, what have I learned? Did I just write without truly exploring what happened, stepping back to examine it from multiple angles—my mother’s perspective, my father’s, even my younger self’s viewpoint? Was I oversharing or venting? What was I holding back?

A recent book about an experience of childhood trauma, written by a doctor felt fragmented, vengeful and sadly, no self-love or heart in its pages. I asked a psychologist why it read like that. She explained the fragmentation was that the author likely was bouncing around between her various parts — inner child, adolescent. ‘Different ego states hold fragmented aspects of traumatic memories’ (Nijenhuis, 2015).

Research by van der Kolk (2014) in The Body Keeps the Score highlights how ‘traumatic memories are stored in disconnected fragments, making full integration difficult. This explains why some trauma narratives feel emotionally distant or fragmented.’

When a story is well-written but doesn’t lead to readers or themselves taking action towards stopping the cycle, deeper questions arise:

Did the author write for accolades?
Did readers feel they’d done their part simply by reading?
Are we valuing storytelling and closing our eyes?

When we’re writing memoirs whose content is designed to foster change, writing is a deeply psychological event. However, it’s clear that not every survivor sees their story as a blueprint for change. Some write simply for self-love, or to release and to feel witnessed and that is a beautiful gift to ourselves.

In all the new memoirs about SSA, every story is full of markers and more, each holding immense power to aid prevention, intervention, and support for others experiencing similar cycles.

We are in a new era, and each of these memoirs must be kept alive, seen and heard about, on bookshelves and in front of people on Amazon, and be used to start necessary conversations.

The resources, networks and connections needed to do that are really beyond the singular power of each self-published author to get their books into many pairs of hands.

The Responsibility of Those Who Know

Writing memoirs about sibling sexual abuse positions the authors and every reader to lead the way and act. Survivors, families, allies, educators, and professionals have the potential and choices open to them to translate storytelling into action: policy, advocacy, legal action, educational outreach, and community support.

Be the Change is a saying we’ve all heard often enough – I saw it as an invitation. Concrete actions are outlined on the Be the Change page. Read and share please in any way you can.

We Are Not Just Witnesses — We Are Changemakers

We were not created merely to be witnesses to harm; we get to be changemakers if we choose.

Writing memoirs or blogs or poetry, speaking and sharing are powerful. But it’s outcomes-focused action by each author and reader that will break cycles of abuse and trauma.

If you’ve written your memoir, what’s next?
If you’ve read a memoir, and questions arose for you, what did you do afterwards?
If you see harm, how do you ensure you act or seek help?

In the Blue Borage Conversation Café, people are practising digging deep, and asking hard questions on a topic that has been universally taboo for centuries. Stories alone won’t change the world, but our hearts and the quality actions we take will.

Shared with love,

Alice