“No writing is worth damaging myself further.” A conversation about writing trauma with Kate Horowitz

On the rituals that anchor our work, the fine line between healing and harm, and how discernment should guide our storytelling

Welcome to Life after Trauma; I’m Clare Egan. Today I’m sharing our first Understory Conversation. ICYMI, The Understory is a series of intimate conversations about the emotional and practical work of writing about trauma. Make sure you’re subscribed to get future editions in your inbox:

🙏 Huge thanks to those who joined our trauma-informed yoga class last night. It was so lovely to share that space with you.

As I said during the class, I was able to offer this class for free because I received some pilot funding from Social Entrepreneurs Ireland. In order to apply for more funding, I need to be able to demonstrate that my work has a positive impact on people. If you joined the class it would be incredibly helpful if you could complete this short survey about your experience.

For those who weren’t able to join us live, I’m hoping to share a recording of the class next week.

Kate Horowitz

Today, I’m delighted to welcome Kate Horowitz to Life after Trauma. Kate is a writer and artist based in Maine. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, National Geographic News, Rogue Agent, and many others. She writes the small magic newsletter and sells stickers and postcards through her online store. Kate generously sent me one of her postcards when I was going through a difficult moment, and it really brightened my day.

Kate is the first participant in The Understory Conversations, a new series on the practical and emotional work of writing about trauma. We chat about the rituals that anchor her work, the fine line between healing and harm, and how discernment should guide our storytelling. I hope you y it!

Welcomee! Before we start, can you describe where you’re answering these questions? I’m curious about the sounds, smells, tastes and emotions that surround you as you sit down to engage with this questionnaire.

Maine is cold, gray, blustery, and rainy today, and the leaves are just starting to turn. The Japanese maple across the street, always the early bird, is already blazing orange-red at its crown. I’m on my beloved blue-green couch, which is where I spend probably 90% of my waking hours. I may make a cup of seaweed tea.

What role do rituals play in your writing life? Do you have a favourite time of day to write? A favourite pen? A favourite prompt. Please share all the granular details. I’m deeply curious.

Ritual is a key element of safety for me when I wade into trauma writing. I have a little witch figurine who acts as a kind of talisman or guardian, and each night before I begin writing I set her beside my laptop. I have a tiny writing treat of two or three sour candies before I start and after I conclude. I listen to the same soothing nature sounds each time, and make sure to check in with a buddy before and/or after so I’m not in it alone. All these comforting, consistent cues create a container in which it’s ok to venture into dangerous waters.

Kate’s witch figurine who acts as a kind of talisman or guardian

I love these practical suggestions, Kate. Thank you for sharing them. How do you manage triggers that arise as you write? Do you have particular techniques or practices for grounding yourself while you’re writing about painful things?

The first sign of being triggered for me is typically dissociation. If I start to experience any sensation of distance from my body or a feeling of floating, I stop what I’m doing and turn my attention to regulating. No writing is worth damaging myself further.

Some trauma writing sessions are difficult but not fully triggering. After these, I may immerse my hands and face in cold water, or use deep pressure like a weighted blanket to calm down.

Disassociation is often an early warning sign for me too. For me, it often emerges as the feeling that time has passed and I can’t quite account for it. I love your certainty that no writing is worth harming yourself further too. I believe that very strongly now too, though there were a few years when I was less sure. I think it’s a really useful reminder for anyone who’s delving into this messy terrain.

How do you know when writing is helping you move through something, versus when it’s retraumatising? If you feel comfortable sharing, I think tangible examples can be especially helpful here.

If I try to write about something and immediately get activated, or if the activation is more extreme than I expected, I shut the work down. If the work feels challenging, scary, and cathartic, but not dangerous, I know I’m on the right path. Crying is ok! Screaming is ok. The impulse to self-harm is a big red flag.

Yes! For me, writing is often an intensely physical experience too. I speak the dialogue out loud. I stomp around the room raging the feelings out, and trying to find a structure that can hold them. In those moments, writing feels generative and big. When I feel it start looming over me, I know it’s time to take a break.

What bolsters your writing life? I’m especially curious about the unusual or quirky things that sustain you through difficult moments.

My secret weapon is the Godzilla remix of Green Day’s “Brain Stew.” If I find myself in fight-or-flight mode, I put this song on, turn the volume all the way up, and scream into a pillow with Godzilla. By the time it’s over, I invariably feel a lot better.

I’m going to check this out! How do you decide what belongs on the page, and what you keep for yourself? Put another way, how do you set your boundaries as a writer?

I have two guideposts: what the work needs, and what works for me. The first-person industrial complex of the 2010s left a legacy of intensely confessional writing that was heavy on details and light on discernment. Editors used to, and often still do, push vulnerable writers to put more of their pain and private information on the page. We don’t owe anyone this.

Sometimes one of my trusted early readers will point out gaps in a draft, places where more information or context is needed. It may be that I just didn’t think of it. But if the idea of filling in those gaps floods me with fear, if what my reader is asking is reasonable but I’m terrified to speak or write those words, I know I’m not ready to tell that particular story just yet.

This is very helpful advice. I’ve had my own horror stories, including one I wrote about last when an editor pushed me to share more of my trauma, and then ghosted me. I think it’s so important for writers to develop their own internal sense of what feels OK to share, and what should remain private at least for the moment. Being able to set these boundaries independent of decisions about growing our careers and earning money from our work feels really important too. What do you wish readers understood about writing that deals with difficult or traumatic topics?

It takes a long time, at least when done responsibly and safely. Writing about trauma is not just writing. It’s reopening a wound and digging out the twisted metal, the shards of filthy glass. It should only be done in community, whether with peers, mentors, or a therapist. The process heals, but first it hurts. It has astonishing power, and it cannot be rushed.

Before we finish, I’m curious about what you’re reading now?

Picture books! Stacks on stacks of picture books. Brain fog from long COVID and other chronic conditions frequently robs me of my ability to read anything longer than a few pages. When this happens, I know I can fall into the arms of books for small children. They soothe my heart, fill my cup as an artist, and invariably remind me of something important. I’m especially partial to the Marcel the Shell books.

I love this! I’ve been struggling to read recently, and I love the idea of picking up some picture books. What would you like folks to read next? Is there a piece of work you are particularly proud of? I’m curious about the work that feels true to you, even if it’s not “the best” or the “most celebrated”.

My lyric essays “Bat Facts” and “Rabbit Facts.” They make up a sort of diptych: two pieces with different styles taking somewhat similar approaches to a topic (gendered violence and trauma). Both essays draw on my background as a science writer, infusing a personal story with information about science, nature, and medicine. “Bat Facts” came first and has a lighter touch; it’s the sort of thing I can read to a crowd without too much of a content warning. I had to write that one before I got to “Rabbit Facts,” which, while not explicit, is much more specific and harrowing. I love them both and am so, so grateful to my early readers and to the editors who believed in them.

I’m so glad you mentioned Rabbit Facts. It might be my favourite essay of yours. It’s not necessarily an “easy” read (whatever that means!), but it’s poignant, moving and deeply felt. I’m excited to check out Bat Facts too. I really recommend your reflections on writing about disability or chronic illness too.

Thanks so much for sharing your wisdom and experience with us, Kate. I really appreciate it.

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Introducing: The Understory Conversations

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💬 In the comments, I’d love to hear your reflections on my conversation with Kate. What resonated with you? And what made you think differently about your own approach to writing about trauma? Let’s discuss in the comments!