What Happens When We Tell the Story?

It’s been five years since the world shifted beneath us. We flattened curves, locked down, and disconnected. Physically, emotionally, even spiritually. But what remains isn’t just the trauma of what happened. It’s the residue of how it changed us. And in that aftermath, a quiet but powerful truth is emerging: we need to tell our stories.

In collecting the first entries for The Disconnection Project, a few themes echoed louder than any headline ever did.

First, there’s the aching thread of disconnection. Each person described it differently. Be it loneliness in a quiet apartment, estrangement from family, even the haunting stillness of social distance. But the core was the same. We didn’t just miss people. We lost how we relate to others, and for some, how we relate to ourselves.

Then came the emotional reckoning. For some, the pandemic cracked open what was already fragile. For others, it ushered in new mental health crises. Panic, grief, addiction, and even hospitalization. What’s striking isn’t the pain itself, but how deeply it intersected with identity. These weren’t just “hard times.” They were identity shocks.

Contributors from the mental health field spoke about the cost of being “the strong one.” Caregivers without space to break. Professionals without room to be human. It’s a familiar story in helping professions, but COVID made it more unbearable and obvious. Burnout was no longer just fatigue. It was a grief-laden exhaustion that still hasn’t lifted.

And yet, within the rawness, something quietly redemptive appeared: the impulse to rebuild. To reimagine connection. To stop chasing “normal” and instead carve out something more intentional. Whether through sisterly love in a moment of crisis, new relationships born from solitude, or simply naming the need for joy again. These stories don’t end in despair. They point toward transformation.

What surprised me most wasn’t the diversity of experiences so much as it was their resonance. Different voices, different professions, different paths, and yet, they were circling the same emotional terrain: Grief, frustration, tenderness, hope. Most of all they seemed to symbolize a longing for meaningful connection.

This is why The Disconnection Project exists. Not to archive tragedy, but to give us a place to witness ourselves again through each other’s words.

The act of storytelling is itself a form of re-connection. Sharing our histories creates a space for affirmation and validation. It gives shape to the unspeakable and allows us to name what we’ve been carrying. These first stories have already shown me the power of being heard, even anonymously. They remind us that our pain isn’t unique, but neither is our hope.

We don’t have to go back to the way things were. In fact, we can’t. But we can move forward, more honestly and more human, if we’re brave enough to tell the truth of what it was like and who we became because of it.

This project has made me look inward in ways I didn’t expect. I didn’t set out to collect a compendium of tragic stories, but rather a record of what reflection, introspection, and honest release can offer. These narratives aren’t just about grief; they’re about the quiet power of naming what happened, and in doing so, rediscovering pieces of ourselves that might’ve gone silent.

There’s hope in every line. Not the glossy kind, but the real kind. The kind that lives in the tension between what we lost and what we now have the chance to rebuild. These stories speak to something deeper than survival. They carry the spirit of rebirth and the courage to redefine who we are, knowing there’s no going back…only forward.

Lately, I’ve found myself talking to colleagues across disciplines, sharing these reflections in settings that usually hold such conversations privately. But something has shifted. Bringing our one-on-one truths into a broader space has created a new kind of connection. It’s a reminder that we’re not as alone in our experiences as we think.

There’s still time to tell your story. Whether it’s for yourself, for others, or for the collective healing we’re all still reaching for. Who knows, you might just feel better for having shared it.