I took this in and then shared a bare-bones account of my own deepest trauma, a story I hold carefully and close. We cried together, quietly. Shared a hug. And from that momentary exchange grew a closeness that left us deep in trust, in collaborative ability, in connection. We worked together for about half a year, never again mentioning this exchange, but it stayed present, informing our relationship, reminding me just how precious it is to be working, to be creating, together. This is the gift of sharing a story; this is the gift that comes with good listening.
I carry secrets from grade school; stories shared in trust, in sadness, in bouncy excitement. Crushes, friendship struggles, things parents did, things parents did to their children. They are decades old, these secrets, and the friendships that fostered them are largely dormant. Still, I hold them close. Some have faded and disintegrated, humus, invisible and integrated. Others I bring out and contemplate quite often. They inform me; they have formed me. Some, spoken, would dissipate and have no impact; others could create massive shockwaves — but I hold them all in what friends call the Jackson Vault. Because trust matters, because stories are sacred. Even in my silence, though, these stories resonate.
Looking back, I wonder how I ought to have responded to some of the more startling stories. Through adult ears, I hear them differently. I feel pulled between protecting the stories, and the trust in which they were shared, and toward protecting those who confided them in me. When do we repeat a secret in search of a deeper security? How should I choose between silence and speech?
Hearing a story comes with responsibility, and not always (or only) to the teller. Despite my belief in the importance of story work, I also believe that not all stories ought to be repeated. Not all writing should be published. Sometimes, in storysharing, all we hear is a whispered trauma in a small space of sacred vulnerability, and that whisper bears such force that we simply witness it and hold silence.