Why Does Your Hardship Get to Matter?

The Voice Underneath

“Before you write a memoir, there is often a question underneath the writing: Does my story matter enough to tell?”

Steven Pressfield calls it “resistance” (The War of Art). That force that whispers you’re not ready, not talented enough, and definitely not the kind of person who writes books. That you should wait until you feel more inspired, more confident, more like a “real writer.”

I lived in that for a long time.

I had a story strewn across journals, Google Docs, blog posts, in my Evernote app, and scribbled on inspirational cards. I had the emotional clarity—the distance you need to tell the story clearly. But underneath all of that was a voice I didn’t talk about much.

It said, “Who do you think you are?”

Not “who do you think you are to write a book about parenting challenges—surely there are those who’ve had it harder than you?”

Just: Why does your hardship get to matter?

That’s the resistance nobody talks about.

The Deeper No

I could have pushed through the self-doubt. I could have reasoned with it, gathered evidence, built a case for why I’m a capable writer. But the voice underneath wasn’t answering to logic.

It was the voice of someone who’d spent decades putting everyone else first, being humble, reliable, and steady. The woman people counted on to get things done. That version of me had learned something deep: your job is to show up for other people. It’s selfish to think about your needs.

Writing a book meant breaking up with that version of myself.

It meant saying: My story matters enough to take the time and space to write it. It meant looking at my own life and deciding I could write about my journey. That felt selfish and wrong, like I was betraying the “good Christian girl” narrative that had held everything together.

The Permission I Didn’t Know I Needed

I realized the resistance wasn’t really about whether I was talented enough. It was about whether I was allowed to want something just for myself.

Because craft is learnable. But permission? That has to come from somewhere else. It has to come from finally deciding that you stepping into who you are now matters as much as everyone else’s existence.

For years, I waited for someone to give me that permission that my story was worth telling. But the person I was really waiting for was myself.

What Changed

I didn’t wake up one day feeling confident that I deserved to take up space. It was much simpler: I decided I was allowed to create something that was really for me—not for anyone else, just for me. And in that act of claiming something for myself, I became visible to myself. Because the story became more important than the fear.

So if you’ve been circling this for months or years—if you have the story but something keeps holding you back—check underneath the surface-level doubt.

Is it really that you’re not a good enough writer, or you don’t have time, or you don’t know where to start?

Or is it that you’re not sure you’re allowed to be one?

I’m curious which one is sitting with you right now. Reply and tell me.

This post originally appeared on Substack.

If you liked this, you may also enjoy What I Wish Someone Said To Me Before I Began.