For those who have been reading my hope blog posts since the beginning, you’re aware of why I created this site, what inspired me to start writing, and—really—the purpose for everything I do.
But for those who have only just discovered any part of my writing journey or just come across a single post and want to learn more, I realize it’s probably important that I share this here. And then I’m going to make sure it stays at the top of my blog, at least for a while.
If you’ve visited my website, you may have noticed that the tagline is “Breathing a little hope into a world that is hurting and broken.” I realize I can’t help everyone with everything. I’m just one person. So I will pour out what I can and meet people where they are. And if each of you spreads the hope you gain from here, well, then that’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?
But back to my purpose.
I have always been a writer. I would ride along in my dad’s 18-wheeler and write stories about talking horses and who knows what else. My diary was filled with made-up stories about a life I wasn’t living (like: “I woke up this morning and went downstairs to feed the dog.” We didn’t have an upstairs, unless you counted the basement as the downstairs, and we definitely didn’t keep the dog in the basement . . .).
I didn’t have the worst life growing up. But I definitely didn’t fit in at school and a lot of bullying went on. People made sure I knew I didn’t fit in. And the mask I mentioned at the end of June? Even the people who talked to me never really got to know the real me. I was too afraid to let anyone that close again.
And that fake diary I kept with the fake stories? That got me in trouble with friends too. I had a friend who liked to huff markers and she tried to get me to do that with her one night. In my diary, I wrote that she wanted me to smoke cigarettes with her. She found the story and got mad at me (she did smoke, but she had never tried to get me to smoke), and wouldn’t talk to me anymore, even after I apologized and tried to explain.
Anyway, I digress.
For a long time, I felt like my story was one that no one would care about. So many people have and had it so much worse than I did. It was better to keep my mouth shut and my chin down.
I became an RA (resident assistant) in college and still remember meeting with the other RAs and our RD (resident director) my second year as an RA the week before students moved in. We were talking about the crisis training we had just gone through earlier in the day, and I had made a comment about how the person acting the part of the student in crisis didn’t act the way a person going through that particular thing would (I forget the exact circumstance—it’s been longer than I care to admit) and one of the RAs looked at me and said, “How would you know?”
Her question took me aback and I asked her what she meant. And she told me that the way I walk around, it looks like nothing bad has ever touched my life. So to judge how others go through crisis is pretty rich.
Honestly, I couldn’t blame her for her assessment. I had perfected my mask by that point. They had no idea that my mom had cervical cancer my freshman year of college or that my father struggled with alcoholism (though by the end of that school year he would be hospitalized with congestive heart failure and would no longer be drinking). They didn’t know that my fiancé had already stopped spending time with anyone except me and didn’t allow me to spend time with anyone unless he was present. They didn’t know that the first time I was physically bullied was when a sixth grader kicked me in the shins when I was in fifth grade, right in front of our teacher, but she waited until the moment his eyes turned away. They didn’t know that I got made fun of at recess by my classmates starting in second grade, so I started asking my teacher in third grade if I could stay inside and grade papers for her.
I didn’t tell them everything. But I told them about my mom’s cancer and the bullying—which had continued until freshman year of college when I was trying to be friends with dorm mates and I heard them say my name late one night and I went and sat by my door and I heard them say, “She’s annoying. And like a lost puppy. I invited her to join us for dinner that one time, and now she invites herself along every single time. She’s not our friend. How can we get her to figure that out?” (I never spoke to them again.)
I feared that sharing these parts of my life would make my fellow RAs and our RD view me as weak. But, instead, I became human to them. My sharing those parts of my story (though still without the hard emotions—those wouldn’t break down until a few years later) allowed the others to share the parts of their stories that they had kept to themselves. We became a more cohesive team at that point. And I learned a valuable lesson.
Our stories matter.
I already knew that at a biblical level. Revelation tells us that: “They overcame [the accuser] by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony” (12:11). But I hadn’t considered it simply at the human level.
It was in my junior year of college that I discovered just how important every story is, and how we need to share our stories, even if we feel they might be insignificant.
But more than that, there’s a reason I started this post with that particular image. The image of the dove, yes. But if you look closely, you’ll notice that within the dove is the semicolon.
The semicolon has become a symbol for suicide prevention and hope. It’s the symbol that says, “Your story isn’t over yet.” What the original symbol says is “you are the author of your own story, and you don’t need to put a period on it.”
But I want to change that with both my blog and the books that I write.
Because I believe there is a different Author. One who loves you more than you could ever imagine and has a better plan for your life than you could ever write for yourself.
So, correct, your story is not over yet, but if you allow the Holy Spirit into your life—through salvation in Christ—He will continue writing your story past the semicolon. Don’t put a period, because your story matters.
A lot, more than I’ve included here in my blog and that I won’t include online, has happened in my life. Each incident has shaped who I am. And I’ve been able to use each thing to help others walk through this broken world. I can’t say I’m glad for everything that’s happened. But I’m grateful that God was with me through it all and has helped me to use it to help others navigate their own journeys.
Maybe you’ve never shared your story before. You want to, but you don’t know who to tell. My inbox is always open. You can message me through the “Contact” page or email me directly at brittany.d.stonestreet@gmail.com. Find a local church where you can get plugged in and join a small group if possible. If it’s within your means, seek a counselor.
If you are struggling and aren’t sure you want your story to continue, use this resource: https://samaritanshope.org. Call or text 988 or 877-870-4673 anytime.
Your story matters.
Brittany Stonestreet 