PAIGE RIEHL: Tracy, first, congratulations on winning the Juniper Prize for Creative Nonfiction! It’s so well-deserved! Thank you so much for speaking with me about your memoir Because We Must, which chronicles your experiences in the aftermath of a car accident that severely injured your youngest son, Elias. I was so incredibly moved by your writing—the adept ways you write about the complexities of Elias’s recovery, the thoughtful ways you address the myriad of emotions such as the weight of grief.

In the introduction, you list in a matter-of-fact manner what happened in the accident—an intoxicated woman got on the interstate going the wrong way and crashed head-on into your son at 2 p.m. on a Monday in March of 2015. You also address the numerous considerations about whether to write this book, revealing that “I know now that it’s my story to tell too—that I can tell my part of it.” Will you share about your decision to start writing and also comment on when you wrote the introduction and how you saw its function for the reader? It feels like the introduction both sets up the purpose behind the book and prepares the reader for what is to come. 

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I composed CaringBridge posts daily for a full year after the crash; that was the only kind of writing I could do for a long time. Those posts enabled me to process what was happening, to record the facts that many of us clung to for hope, and also to think outwardly about all the people who wanted to know what was happening. There were people following the CaringBridge site whom we had never met—locals who commented that it could have been their son that day, first responders who wanted to see if he made it—and it gave me a sense of purpose to keep Elias’s huge cheering section informed.

So, strangely, at that point, I decided that I had to recapture that lost writing. Losing writing was probably a metaphor for other losses, but I was desperate to recreate what I had already written, so I started hammering out drafts of what I remembered having done, and somewhere in that first quarter of 2016, I started considering that this writing might become a book eventually.

My drafts tell me that I had written an initial version of the introduction around the one-year anniversary. It seems odd to me that I was thinking of an introduction at that point! But when I look at that early draft, I can see what survived: I am announcing intent, I am saying, here’s what happened and how we responded, and I am going to try to capture that for you, even though I don’t know yet what I am going to capture. Again: it seems odd that I was thinking like this—about audience, really—at that early stage. But part of the writing process is always mysterious.

I remember in the final revisions that I honed that focus; as it became clearer to me that writing about Elias’s experience wasn’t taking anything from his story, I saw that it not only COULD be about me but that it SHOULD. And I knew that idea—the way I was conceiving the book—was important for any reader to understand.

PAIGE RIEHL: Oh, I’m sorry to hear about the ransomware! It sounds like the loss of that initial writing sparked you into an active writing phase, though, and your early consideration of audience was crucial to the immersive nature of the writing. Readers feel like they’re right with you as the events unfold—from the moment a police officer unexpectedly shows up at your door to tell you about the accident to three years into Elias’s recovery. Four of the chapters were published individually in various literary journals and magazines, so I was curious about whether the book started as a series of personal narratives and essays and then at some point you realized you had the material for a book or if you knew from the outset you were writing the pieces of a memoir.

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I did start writing in earnest a year or so after the accident, but I approached the writing as a series of stand-alone essays, even after I had written that intro chapter. I think because I had doubts about whether I could actually compile the writing into a book, whether anyone would be interested in it. And I didn’t know what I was doing—I had never written a memoir. But I did seem to know that the story wasn’t going to be a smooth, unbroken narrative; it was going to capture a series of moments. That’s how I continued writing. Elias and I would go somewhere, or he would say something, and it would give me an emotional shock, and I would try to write about it. So, whatever I was writing, if it became a book, I knew it wouldn’t be like many memoirs I had read, a continuous story from the beginning to the end.

PAIGE RIEHL: I like how you describe the story as a “series of moments.” Memory works like that—individual moments rather than a smooth uninterrupted narrative, which perhaps is one of the reasons the writing feels so honest. One of the chapters of the memoir that struck me so deeply was “A Sudden Different View,” when after three weeks in the ICU with no major vision problems, Elias suddenly loses his sight completely and irreversibly. The doctors don’t know exactly what caused the loss of sight—although swelling, procedures the day of the accident, and later facial reconstruction are possibilities. This moment is such a turning point in your son’s and in your future. Was this moment in particular challenging to write about? I’m thinking of all the ways a writer chooses to convey the intensity of an experience—including specific word choice, what to share, what to leave out. How did you set the parameters of what to include?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: Thanks for this question! It is always interesting to know what strikes readers. It took me a long time to write this chapter in its current form—in fact, the first three chapters didn’t take shape until several revisions. I had let the CaringBridge posts tell the story in earlier drafts. Then, once I decided (with the help of feedback from readers) that the CaringBridge posts weren’t effective, I rewrote the first part of the book as chapters.

That day/weekend was pivotal for us, wrenching in every sense of the word. The surprise, the ache of it—after such a hopeful recovery to that point—was crystal clear even years later when I wrote this chapter. I could see it and feel it again as I wrote. It wasn’t the most difficult chapter to write, but it was hard. I relied mostly on specific, visceral memories: watching Elias NOT see the pen light, our decision to tell our son. I had to take a step back, to watch myself going through the experience, so I could record it that way: to demonstrate that I felt mechanical, hearing the news, letting it slowly sink in.

I had purposely not revealed that Elias lost his vision in the introduction so that readers would experience the shock as we did—when it came. I tried to keep that chapter direct and sparse—not a lot of commentary—so reading it would enhance the experience of it. I wanted to stick, also, to the outward impressions of that day; we operated on the surface because the internal was too difficult. I am not sure if it was conscious or not, but the chapter really focuses on Rich and me, even though there were many people around that weekend. It was happening to US—parents who, though we weren’t married anymore, still experienced this news together. And I still find it touching that he could see through me, that he would be the one to remind me to take care of myself, too.

PAIGE RIEHL: Yes, I think that direct, sparse nature of the chapter clearly conveyed the shock you felt. I admire the ways your writing changes from chapter to chapter, in tone, form, and structure. One of the most brilliant chapters of the book is “Recovery in Two Acts, With an Interlude.” The form is a two-act play that initially puts Elias in a spotlight on an otherwise dark stage as the other characters—parents, hospital staff, friends—are, except for their voices, hidden in the periphery. First, how did you come up with the idea to present part of the experience as a play? Second, was the absence of the third act, the act which often offers resolution, intentional to indicate that the experience is still in progress and not able to be wrapped up in a neat denouement?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I’m glad you asked about that!  This chapter was a late decision that came after I had struggled with HOW to transcribe Elias’s experience in the rehab centers where he went after discharge from the hospital. I was poring over the Caring Bridge posts I wrote during that two-month period, and there were a lot of them. Not all of what I wrote about was that important—a lot of it was daily, mundane stuff. So, I was reading to identify the moments or experiences that were most important. That was a starting point.

But when I thought of trying to write those moments as a narrative chapter, it seemed like it would be boring, repetitive. I briefly considered inserting sections of what I wrote on CaringBridge as part of a longer narrative piece that would lead to the longer period when he was at home; but that idea didn’t seem to work either.

Along the way, I had feedback on parts of the writing, and someone suggested to me that I try to dramatize events more. Good advice—but that word stuck in my brain. Eventually, I took the word literally and decided to make a drama out of that time period. Once I started working on it, at a summer writing conference in 2019, the actual writing went fairly quickly, so I thought that was a sign I had found a good form for the material.

But I also have to say that part of the writing process is mysterious; this is how I remember it, but it may not have been so clear a path!  Like—where do ideas come from? I can’t say that I honestly know how I decided to write the “Comic Interlude” section of the play. But when the idea surfaced in my consciousness, I tried it, and it worked to present it as a bitter, yet funny, event in an otherwise steady road to recovery.

That leads me to the second part of your question—the absence of a third act. I don’t think I was consciously making that decision, but the play chapter is a transition to the rest of the book—it acts as a hinge between time in medical facilities and the “real” work of recovery, which took place when Elias was at home, without medical staff and support. So, your question makes me think that the whole rest of the book is the third act; what resolution there is happens only when he (and I) have to adjust in the long term, and solo.

PAIGE RIEHL: As a reader, the play structure felt like a moment where I really was able to connect with Elias’s experience—to hear him more, understand through more specifics his daily struggles and frustrations as you became more of a supporting character in the play. How did this form alter or open the way you were able to write about and address the material? (I’d love to see this made into a play, by the way!)

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: You’re right—and thank you. The play section focuses on what he actually said, since in the earlier chapters he wasn’t talking or interacting much. Once he got to Regency Hospital, miraculously, he had figured out how to talk. I played a more active role in support then because he was more coherent. We could have actual conversations, and in those, his real personality and outlook started to surface more—or resurface.

I loved being able to focus on what he actually said! Most if not all of the dialog in this section is verbatim—what I recall or recorded in the CaringBridge posts. It was great to focus on scenes that highlight his progress in those two months because it became clear that his stubborn personality was intact—and his sense of humor. That’s what helped him to recover. I knew that, of course, but it was delightful to highlight that in the writing. I was and am still a little awed at how bravely he faced it all.

Because the form of a play is by nature condensed, I could pack a lot in a few pages; I was forced to choose scenes that were pivotal and significant. Maybe that’s the nature of drama—when distilled down to dialog, human experience is denser, more resonant. There is no comment on it, except in the transitions and at the end; Elias’s words stand as testament to his spirit.

I have to add that he called me recently to ask about something in the play section—the part where his dad is filling out forms and he says, in response to a question about stomach issues, “Yeah, I’m hungry all the time.” He couldn’t remember saying it, and he wondered if he really did or if I invented it. When I told him he actually said it, he was pleased that he was so funny!

PAIGE RIEHL: Because We Must is about a personal and unique tragedy, and yet so accurately captures the universal experience of grief. The short chapter titled “Weight” is about the literal weight you lost in the aftermath of the accident but more so about the invisible weight of grief. You write “If the weight of emotional reality were literal, if grief were efficacious, I would weigh, by now, six hundred pounds. My physical body, alas, doesn’t show it. Little bastard. Such a betrayal.” I so identified with the way you wrote about grief as this internal struggle, this invisible weight that requires both physical and emotional effort to carry. I can’t help but think of the poem “Machiko Dead” by Jack Gilbert, which so perfectly illustrates the ways we carry grief over time. Have you found that as the years pass the ways you carry grief have altered? I’m also wondering if you’ve had reader feedback that the book is helpful to others who have experienced various forms of loss?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: First of all, I didn’t know the poem you mentioned, so I looked it up. That ending is so powerful:  “so that he can go on without ever putting the box down.” What a perfect metaphor for the weight and longevity of grief.

PAIGE RIEHL: I’m so glad you mentioned anger and the other emotions that are entangled with grief. One aspect I so greatly admire about your writing is how during the several years of Elias’s recovery you show the intense and wide range of emotions you experienced—hope, anger, grief, gratitude, longing, despair, guilt—and the ways these emotions can overlap, fade, and reappear. In the chapter titled “Key Fob,” for example, you write about your long-awaited newer Honda Accord and your wondering if, had you encouraged Elias to drive it to Fargo and back, the Accord’s size and airbags may have protected him more than the older and smaller car he was driving. It feels like such a universal human response to feel guilty about what might have been. As you were writing the chapters of the memoir, were you thinking about conveying your full range of emotions? Or was it something that happened organically?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I would say it was more organic; especially because the earliest drafts of chapters were really just attempts to process the barrage of emotions. I think that’s also part of my personality, to respond emotionally to events. Eventually, and in revision, I was able to craft the essays more, focus on structure—starting with a flashback, for instance, or weaving stories in a collage type way—and those decisions I made to bring out the emotional resonance of the events.

PAIGE RIEHL: Early in the memoir, you write that you remained angry that you had this story to tell. Did writing this book provide a path through that anger? I was struck by what felt like an absence of rage through Part One specifically. In Part One, the narrative voice often optimistic and grateful as you share details about the caring hospital staff, the police officers, friends and family doing what they can to help. As a reader, I kept thinking that most people might desire someone specific to blame, such as the drunk driver or the surgical staff who may have made an error for example, but you don’t linger on those options.

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: It’s interesting how anger comes out. It’s true that the first part is optimistic; that’s because we had so many people there to walk through the experience together. We opted to focus on the positive because we were grateful that he hadn’t died—which he easily could have. And later, we were influenced by Elias’s refusal to spend his energy on anger. It’s also true that my anger came out in some odd ways—being angry about having to tell the story is a way of being angry at everything: the driver, the outcome, my inability to control events or protect my child, the senselessness of driving drunk. In short, anger at my utter helplessness.

My most visible anger in the book is the scene in the courtroom with the driver. That anger was visceral—but it didn’t last. At some point, I had to let it go—to let her go. Elias was right that her life was kind of a wreck. So, I had to dismiss her from my thoughts. I don’t want to see her, and I don’t want bad things to happen to her, but I don’t want to think about her either. To remain actively angry with her is an energy drain I don’t want to deal with.

All of that to say, yes, writing the book was a way to deal with anger—with all the emotions of the experience. I do blame the driver for the crash; it was obviously her fault. But it’s done; I can’t go back in time to change or prevent the outcome. My anger, I suppose, has lapsed into a lasting sadness; but even that is tempered by the joy I have in seeing my son’s life unfold in remarkable ways.

PAIGE RIEHL: The memoir’s three-part structure fits your emotional progression in some ways, doesn’t it? I had been thinking about the three parts and their chronological significance as well. Part One focuses on the immediate aftermath of the accident, Part Two is a year after the accident, and Part Three is three years after the accident. Were you thinking of the three-act play structure at all when you made the decision to divide the memoir into three parts? In contrast to the two-act play you used in one chapter, the book as a whole does feel like it has as much of a resolution as a reader could expect—even with a wedding in the afterword. Would you tell a bit more about your thoughts regarding the memoir’s structure and organization?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I wanted to answer your question accurately, so I went back and looked: the first draft of the memoir was actually in four parts. It was arranged thematically, each section having a title, more than chronologically. My gut instinct is to say that I structured it originally like a book of poems, which was a familiar structure to me.

It’s also true that when I put together that first draft, much of what is currently the third section wasn’t even written because that draft was just two years after the crash. So, I’m glad that that initial form altered.

My process of arriving at the current structure was fumbling and not as conscious as I wish! I was not consciously, for instance, thinking of the three-act play structure, but I can see that it mimics that structure now—initial experience/conflict (crash leading to discovery of blindness), followed by the development (first year of struggle) and eventual resolution (what we figured out in the next couple of years). I was flying by instinct more than forethought. 

What shaped the book ultimately was a combination of my lack of experience, my own stubborn convictions, and reader feedback. I didn’t know what I was doing, so I included a lot in the early drafts that didn’t belong—huge sections of CaringBridge posts and some essays or chapters that were weakly written and self-indulgent. And, for a long time, because I identified so strongly as a poet, I insisted that poems had a place in the draft. Part of me knew that the poems weren’t great, but they represented a return to poetry after six months when I couldn’t write a single poem, and they expressed some emotions I couldn’t express in prose then, and I was committed to making the form of the book uniquely MINE. For too long, that stubborn idea of form included poems. It was only in the final revisions that I got rid of them.

The decisions I made along the way were influenced by readers—I can’t say enough about having readers you trust! Some early feedback moved me to be more conscious of narrative structure—comments like, “We would like to know who is there when this is happening,” and advice to consider narrative arc and to make people (my other sons, for instance) into characters—fill them out, make them more multi-dimensional. Later, comments about dramatizing the action kept me aware of balancing narrative and reflection. Finally, when I got rid of the poems, a reader suggested I could keep important images by including them in other chapters, which is what I did.

My final thoughts: it is a combination of luck and timely feedback that produced this book. I realized that I could keep writing individual essays forever, so I cut myself off—in the Fall of 2019, Elias moved back to Fargo, and I decided that transition could be the end of the book. Once I finished writing, I could work on shaping what was there. I spent so many hours fiddling—editing, rewriting, rearranging—and got so much good feedback. To those friends I am deeply indebted. 

PAIGE RIEHL: Ah, I’m so glad you brought up poetry! You are a well-published poet with two full-length books and two chapbooks of poetry. Although you ended up removing the poems from the book, how did your poetic abilities and poetic craft influence the way you wrote and approached this book? Or did they?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: Certainly, I think in images—in metaphors—figuratively. So that came into play mainly after the first several narrative chapters. The style changes then; the essays or chapters become more reflective and imaginative—less straightforwardly narrative—than the initial several chapters.

In those subsequent chapters, I was weaving events both present and past, and trying to find the images or metaphors to express the emotional truth I was after. For instance, in the chapter “Impact,” I was exploring all the connotations and insinuations of that individual word, in service to the idea that the crash was one impact that would stay with us forever. I used a similar strategy in the later chapter called “Growing Dark.” In other chapters, I worked hard on passages of description, which is where metaphor lives.  Finally, for me, poems are about pictures rather than declarations—about suggestion rather than “fact.” So, I was trying hard not to declare anything, but just relating the experiences and the way they worked in my mind—suggesting connections that, again, can get to emotional depth in a way that declarations never can.

PAIGE RIEHL: Throughout the book, you integrate powerful flashbacks braided into the narrative. Some of the flashbacks are stressful and tense parenting moments that provide opportunities to both contrast and show continuity of your and Elias’s relationship both before and after the accident. How did you decide which moments from his childhood to include via flashback to help readers gain a broader understanding?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: That question makes me laugh: the Blizzard story is legend in our family! That was an easy choice to include. The flashbacks are touchstones for Elias—they point to critical elements of his personality, or they represent specific and clear memories of him that I have. All of them define him in some way, or him-and-me: the shape of our mother-son relationship. I often say (because it is true): I was the most stubborn person I knew until he was born.

That’s different from answering your question about how I decided to include them! At some point, I was drawn to a collage-type form, the weaving of many different scenes or experiences. In those kinds of essays, such as “The Old Familiar,” flashbacks were an integral part of the structure, so that was an organic choice—the flashbacks supported the main idea, which is that in spite of the crash, he is the same person. In other essays, I am less sure of my intent; it goes back to my earlier thought that the writing process contains more than a hint of mystery. I do recall writing the chapter “Balance” all in a rush, quite late in the formation of the book, but I am not really sure where the idea came from—what made me remember the bike-riding story or what made me connect it to his moving to the apartment.

PAIGE RIEHL: Full disclosure for the reader: you and I have been colleagues in the English Department at Anoka-Ramsey Community College for several years, so I share your love of literature and language. Because We Must illustrates how you use both language and literature to help you analyze what’s happening and explore this tragic experience’s impacts and meaning. For example, you write about reading The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo to Elias while he’s in the hospital. You explore poetry by Thomas Hardy and Robert Frost while grappling with the lack of sense of the accident, discuss the importance of backstory through Ophelia’s backstory in Hamlet, and delve into the denotations and connotations of words like “impact” and “grow.” Please tell a little bit more about the role that literature and language have played in your writing life more broadly, and then more specifically its role in your writing this book.

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: Both consciously and subconsciously, literature helps me navigate my life and find significance and meaning in events. Writers are readers; we absorb what we read and it—again—consciously and subconsciously informs our writing process. One specific example: in graduate school, I read a lot of poetry by Sylvia Plath and John Berryman. I could see, and my advisors could see, their influence on my own work at the time. It came out in elements of structure, in images, in cadence. So that happens quite naturally for writers, I think. Another example is that I memorize a lot of poetry as part of my writing practice. I recite those poems to myself often when I’m walking, but they also arise on their own in my consciousness at times. Some lines from Wordsworth’s long “Intimations Ode” floated into my conscious mind many times since the accident: “though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind—in the primal sympathy that, having been, must ever be, in the soothing thoughts that spring from human suffering.” Finally, when I am moved by something I’ve read, I want to write about it. I was and maybe still am obsessed with Ophelia from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I have a whole series of persona poems in her voice; in exploring her through poetry, I am trying to understand her character more and, by extension, the overall situation of women.

For this book, that’s the main goal, too. In writing about my experience, I am trying to understand it more, and reading is a part of that process. During Elias’s recovery, Abigail Thomas’s memoir, What Comes Next and How to Like It, was an amazing book to read because of its structure, which led me to consider a less-traditional memoir structure. That was a direct influence. Her books are great, by the way—vivid and lyrical and moving!

Then, my mind and memory are just tuned to the literature I’ve consumed. As I am writing, passages, ideas, characters just come into my head. I guess that’s kind of the definition of a metaphor—a comparison, a setting down of two things next to each other. So, literature is where I find those comparisons—not really look for them—but where they appear for me.

I mentioned the concept of touchstones earlier—the way flashbacks are touchstones for Elias’s core personality. That’s how literature is for me—it’s a touchstone. I mentioned that purposely in the introduction—the fact that writers and readers view their lives through the perspectives of others’ stories. Again, this happens naturally, but I also wanted to be up front about it in the introduction—that’s why reading can be so powerful, because it gives us a new way to look into our own lives. I believe many readers can relate to that idea.

PAIGE RIEHL: I certainly agree about the power of reading! How much did potential readers guide or influence your writing and revision? Were you thinking about readers who may also have experienced similar losses? And, I’m wondering in particular if you consulted with Elias as you were writing and if he gave you feedback?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: I would say a lot!  Like most writers, I called on actual readers to give me feedback throughout the entire process, which was at least 5 years. I believe strongly that to relate to someone else’s experience, as we say, we don’t have to share it directly. Because of that, I had an inclination that the story would appeal broadly—to those with any significant loss; to anyone whose life is touched by addiction; by those who struggle with faith; to those who experience a chronic illness or extended hospitalization; to parents. My readers mostly verified that and offered suggestions to appeal more directly to those readers in the telling of the story—by creating more round characters, by being clear about when events were happening and who was there besides me.

Elias knew I was working on the book, and I did send him some chapters in progress. I clearly remember sending him the chapter called “Light,” which is late in the book, and he told me the ending didn’t make sense!  He preferred the literal parts. I know that reading the early chapters was enlightening—because he had no idea what it was like those early days in the hospital. He was heavily sedated, and he doesn’t remember the accident itself, so reading those helped him understand what HE physically went through and also what we parents went through.

PAIGE RIEHL: The book is a moving exploration of your experiences, but it’s also a powerful homage to Elias—his resilience, his courage, his dedication to living his life to the fullest without the accident defining him. Recently, Elias and you have spoken together on stage about your book and the accident. Will you tell us more about these times together in front of a live audience?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: Yes, he has been doing some selective speaking since the accident. The MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) advocate we met in the hospital has connected him to some opportunities, and I know he spoke to some student groups as well early on. Recently this advocate, who works now for an organization called Toward Zero Deaths, invited both Elias and me to speak at their annual conference as one of the plenary sessions in Fall 2024.

I loved speaking with him because I think he does a great job sharing his perspective; he is fully himself. He always breaks the ice by saying that crowds don’t intimidate him because he can’t see them. And he always jokes about how he loves to talk about himself.

For this particular conference, we had an hour-long time slot, so we planned pretty carefully. We roughed out an outline of topics in a format that allowed us to take turns sharing our initial stories and then our developing perspectives as time went on. 

During the actual event, I was pretty nervous, and he may have been as well because he rushed through the opening. But the crowd was receptive, and we had a slide show of photos, and it went well. I am always amazed at his resilience. This is not fake—he really means it when he says he has a great life, and he refused to allow the driver to determine his life for him. He’s happily employed and married, and he has such a normal, fulfilling life. Testament to how much people appreciate hearing him is that afterwards, lots of people lined up to shake his hand. We were speaking to a group of first responders, educators, and law enforcement, so we actually met some of the people who were behind the scenes that day, who remembered the accident, who knew the helicopter crew, who remember when he arrived at the hospital.

When I had the book launch for the memoir, he was also there, and though it was less formal, he did a great job speaking and answering audience questions that day. People generally ask great questions—that day, one question was what lessons we learned from the accident. Hard for me in a way, but he was quick to say that he learned that people want to help, and you should let them help when there’s a crisis.

PAIGE RIEHL: Tracy, thank you so much. I’ll end with this question: For others who have experienced personal tragedy and trauma and are thinking of or beginning to write about it, what advice do you have?

TRACY YOUNGBLOM: My advice is to just get your feelings/ideas down on paper—don’t worry at the start about how to label what you’re doing. Just trust that the words that come to you will help you to continue writing. You’ll figure out what you’re working on over time. Be patient with yourself; grief and writing both take a long time to unfold.

Also, on a more serious note, it’s good to have readers, but much of writing is a solitary process, and when you are writing about trauma, it’s emotionally taxing, and you will have to go through that part on your own. But you can get support for THAT piece of recovery as well—for the difficulty that is writing, for what you will experience as you do the work. It’s going to mean reliving some of the trauma, and so call on friends or fellow writers to process that reliving piece.