“Dare to be true” had an appealing ring to it back in my adolescent days. For me, the words summoned the courage to connect with my authentic self — to speak and act and relate to the world from that place.
More than 20 years out, I have observed how the motto stands the test of time, though now with some nuance. My younger self tended to connect to this concept of “being true” in a way that felt bold. Applying it had more to do with my academic and professional pursuits. Now, at nearly 40 years old, life has had more of a chance to have its way with me, and in recent years this has included the loss of my second-born child, Ryland, to terminal cancer at age three. I cannot even begin to describe that experience of devastation here.
But I did describe it. Soon after Ryland was diagnosed, I started a blog to inform friends and family about his condition and treatment. I communicated this way for the year that he survived. I did not anticipate how quickly the writing evolved, from basic information sharing to a critical opportunity to process what was happening to my family and me. I had never been good at journaling, as I think my inner critic interfered too much and stifled any flow. But that critic utterly disappeared; there was no mental space for it. Despite the agony of my situation, I experienced a freedom in writing that I never had before.
A moment, or a thought would occur, and the words would just well up and demand expression on the page.
Similarly, my father, Walter (Class of ’66), became driven by this same impulse to bear witness and cope with his own profound sorrow, through language. A professional sculptor by trade, he had never written poetry before, but suddenly that became the form his expression needed to take. And so, independently of one another, we charted our journey of heartbreak, through prose and poetry, respectively. After that year of illness, after the life-altering moment of my son’s death, and the ensuing months of acute grief, we were left with this soul-bearing testimony about it all.
Encouraged by loved ones to “do something” with this body of work, my father soon noticed that the writings paired in a powerful way. This observation was the seed for our book, Feel Me Brave, a memorable phrase of Ryland’s during his treatment. The process of transforming our work into book form took time, posed creative challenges, and obviously required that we revisit impossibly painful memories and emotions. At the same time, the act of telling our story together in this way opened up opportunities for connection and healing I could not have foreseen. As my dad has said, in many ways the writing “did its job” for us the moment the words hit the page. But now to merge these words in a creative and intentional way breathes a new kind of life into them. And certainly, should this book find its way to people and impart some support, or hope, or insight, then the work will take on another level of meaning.
This book is my “true.” It does not feel like a bold or flashy achievement; this is the book I never wanted to write. But as the story of Ryland’s fate unfolded, even against every shred of my will, the instinct to grapple with it, to look at it squarely, to process its impact persisted. Many would say, “there are no words” for this kind of loss, and yes, language may always have limitations. Nonetheless, something vital happens in the sheer effort to articulate one’s truth, no matter how hard or painful. A certain grounding happens, as well as that chance to connect with fellow human beings charting their own life stories. It seems that “being true” is more than a commandment on a shield: it is a tender human capability that roots us in our own lives and in the nourishing landscape of shared experience.
by Jessica Horak Stout ’94