Ever since leaving my full-time office job, I've had trouble defining what it is I do for a living. I often find myself reducing my job title to "writer and editor" since that seems to easily describe what I do most often. Yet, my days consist of so many other activities: I write podcast scripts, chat with people for assignments, record and edit audio and I often use video and photography as a way to help tell stories.

Storytelling. That's really what I do for a living. 

I can't even begin to explain how rewarding it is to share both my own stories and the stories of others in various online and print spaces. There's a vulnerability involved in telling your story—in being open and honest—yet once we take that step, we're free. That story is no longer lurking under cover. Instead, it's out in the world where others can see it, hear it and feel it.

And let me tell you, friends—that's where the good stuff happens. Out in the open is where "me too" and "I've been there" come to play. When we share the good, the bad, the trials, the tips, the advice and everything else in between, we connect with others in a way we never thought possible.

Now, that's not to say that the stories always come easily. They're often incredibly difficult to coax out of hiding and it takes even longer to get them ready for public consumption. The other day, in fact, I sat for hours in front of a blank screen and notepad trying to get a story started. Nothing came of it, but shortly after packing it in for the day I received an email from a complete stranger thanking me for the stories I share in this space, on the podcast and elsewhere.

Please note that this rarely happens. My readership is teeny tiny compared to others out there so getting reader/listener emails isn't exactly commonplace. Yet, one email is all it really took to get the inspiration rolling again. Because, let's face it—though a story unheard is still worth telling, a story heard and felt and understood is pure magic.

Here's to both telling and hearing all the stories our little hearts can handle, friends.


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