The Hardest Piece I've Ever Written

Some challenges sneak up on you quietly, like an unexpected mosquito in the Alabama summer—you don't see them coming until you're already itching. Others charge at you like a bull in a china shop, and trust me, I’ve run headfirst into both. But when it comes to writing, there’s one piece that left me questioning not only my work but my heart, my history, and my entire sense of self.

This story is about pain and growth. And like every good relationship—or breakup—there were moments that tested me, shaped me, and left me better for having lived through them.

A Southern Story That Cut Deep

Let me take you back a few years. I was living in Montgomery and working part-time at a local museum, surrounded daily by the ghosts of Alabama’s history. My job involved cataloging archives and piecing together untold stories, which is as romantic as it sounds when you’re from a place so charged with history.

One day, I stumbled across a stack of oral histories in an old cardboard box labeled simply, Freedom Marchers—1965. These were firsthand accounts from people who had faced down hatred and brutality for the right to vote—women, men, teenagers braver than I could ever imagine being.

Their words jumped off the page, raw and unpolished. Saying they tugged at my heartstrings is an understatement; they ripped those strings right out of my chest and tied me up in the kind of knots only stubborn Southern guilt and pride can weave.

I knew I needed to share their stories. It was personal. Growing up in the South, you don’t just inherit your family’s heirlooms or casseroles—you inherit a legacy of both resilience and reckoning. But telling stories this important comes with a weight that feels heavier than August humidity.

Wrestling With My Own Bias

Let me be honest: I thought writing about history would be a straightforward task. After all, it’s just the past, isn’t it? Neatly labeled in primary sources and citations? Turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d tried to explain snowfall to someone born and raised in Montgomery.

The truth is, you bring yourself to the work, and I brought plenty—my middle-class upbringing, my parents’ idealism as educators, the privilege of being a white woman writing about Black voices. I found myself questioning whether I had the right to tell these stories. Was I doing justice to the bravery of those whose lives I was putting into sentences and paragraphs?

There’s a term southerners use when describing sweet tea that’s too strong: “It’ll curl your tongue.” That was my experience with this article. The emotional labor felt overwhelming at times—like attempting to sip tea that had steeped far too long.

The Hardest Part: Writing Through Impostor Syndrome

Remember that scene in Gone With the Wind where Scarlett O’Hara stands under the wisteria-draped sky and declares she’ll never go hungry again? I wish I could say I felt that defiant when I sat down to write this piece. Instead, I stared at the screen, genuinely wondering if I should just close my laptop forever and become a florist instead.

Impostor syndrome is a funny thing. It creeps into your brain at the most inconvenient moments, whispering things like, “What do YOU know about this? What gives YOU the authority to tell these tales?”

Every sentence I wrote felt too polished or too clunky, too reverent or too casual. I imagine it’s similar to walking the tightrope of a new relationship—do you lean in for the kiss, or do you crack one more joke to keep things comfortable? Writing this piece was like navigating that tension, except the stakes weren’t heart emojis; they were the dignity and legacies of real people.

I rewrote my opening paragraph 17 times. I counted. And I cried at least twice in the process.

What It Taught Me About Relationships (With Writing & People)

In hindsight, writing this challenging piece wasn’t so different from navigating love and commitment. Both require vulnerability, patience, and messy, uncomfortable self-awareness. Here are a few lessons I learned along the way—the kind that translate whether you’re writing an article, mending a friendship, or putting yourself out there on a date.

  • Listen, Don’t Assume. Whether it’s someone’s lived experience or their preferences for tomato pie versus barbecue, don’t pretend you already know it all. The best stories—and relationships—come from active listening.

  • Comfort Isn’t the Point. Growth is uncomfortable. Whether you’re addressing centuries-old systems of oppression or having "the talk" with your crush, learning how to sit with discomfort is a skill worth practicing.

  • It’s Okay to Not Feel Ready. Sometimes, you’re going to feel like an impostor. But showing up—even tentatively—matters. Over-apologizing and overthinking are overrated anyway.

The Moment It All Clicked

I spent weeks agonizing over the words. But when I finally submitted the piece, something surprising happened—it resonated. The feedback I received was overwhelming and humbling. One reader emailed me to say she’d walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge as a college freshman in the 1960s, and my article reminded her of just how far we’ve come—and how far there is to go. Another called it “necessary reading for anyone who’s ever forgotten the faces behind the headlines.”

It reminded me of something I might’ve heard in church: faith isn’t about being fearless; it’s about trusting the process, even when your hands are shaking.

Takeaways I’ll Never Forget

Looking back now, I realize the hardest piece I’ve ever written didn’t just teach me about storytelling—it reframed how I approach life, relationships, and even love. After all, isn’t love at its core about respect and care? To really know someone—or some place, in the case of the South—you have to be willing to dig deep.

And yeah, sometimes you’ll make mistakes. You’ll call someone by the wrong name, metaphorically speaking, or realize a day later that “I’m fine” was not fine at all (looking at you, every man who was ever in a relationship). But the important thing is that you stay in the room. You stick with the conversation.

The Story’s Not Over

I still think about those oral histories now and then. About the bravery stitched into every letter and word of those stories from 1965. I think about how this article taught me to embrace the messy, complicated South that raised me and the ways I can honor voices across time. Most importantly, I think about how it taught me that the hardest things in life—whether writing something big, falling in love, or healing your heart—are worth every moment of tension and self-doubt.

So here’s my truth: the hardest piece I ever wrote wasn’t just an article. It was a mirror, reflecting back the scary, raw, honest work I hadn’t done on myself yet. And you know what? I didn’t just survive it; I grew because of it.