I have spent years crafting fictional worlds—carefully sculpting characters, weaving intricate plots, and molding themes into something cohesive, intentional, and satisfying. I have spent entire nights agonizing over the perfect ending, the right flaw for a character, the best way to reveal their innermost struggles to the reader.

And now, I find myself writing something very different.

A memoir.
My story.
The rawest, messiest, most difficult thing I have ever attempted to put into words.

I thought writing my own story would be easier. After all, I don’t have to make anything up. The characters already exist. The events already happened. There’s no world-building, no plot holes to fill, no contrived conflicts to brainstorm.

But if writing fiction is like playing God, writing a memoir is like putting yourself under a microscope and daring the world to look closer.

And that? That is terrifying.

I’m not flawed… you’re flawed!

When I create a fictional character, I make sure they have flaws.
Real, tangible, sometimes frustrating flaws.

Because readers don’t connect with perfection—they connect with vulnerability, with mistakes, with the messy reality of being human.

But when I sit down to write my own story?

It’s a different battle entirely.

Because the truth is, we all want to be liked. Even if we claim not to care, there’s a part of us that flinches at the idea of being judged.

It’s one thing to write about a fictional heroine who is selfish or prideful or makes bad choices—it’s another thing to admit, on paper, that I have been all of those things too.

It is so much easier to smooth over my edges, to edit myself into someone more digestible, to present my struggles in a way that makes me look strong rather than broken.

But that isn’t honesty.

And if I’m going to tell this story, if I’m going to write a book that means something, then I have to be real. I have to tell the truth—even when it makes me uncomfortable.

What If the People in My Story Read It?

Writing fiction is freeing.

I can create villains, rewrite relationships, erase toxic dynamics, and shape a story that serves a purpose. If a character is cruel, I can justify it with backstory. If someone is hurtful, I can frame it in a way that makes sense to the narrative.

But a memoir? Memoirs don’t have that luxury.

The people in my life aren’t characters. They are real. They are complicated and flawed and sometimes they have been the cause of my pain—but they are also human.

And so the question lingers in my mind with every page I write:

What if they read it?

What if someone I love hates the way they were written about? What if they remember things differently? What if my truth feels like an attack to them?

Fiction never demands these questions. Fiction gives you control. But a memoir? A memoir is walking a tightrope between honesty and consequence.

So I remind myself, with every word, that this is my story, and no one else’s. 

That I have the right to tell it.

That I will be kind, but I will be honest.

And that if someone didn’t want to be written about in a bad light, maybe they should have been kinder.

When Do I End a Story That’s Still Happening?

A novel has a clear structure.
A beginning, a middle, an end.

I can outline a story. I can decide when a character’s arc has come full circle. I can tie up loose ends and step back, knowing the journey has concluded exactly where I wanted it to.

But when writing a memoir?

There is no clean ending waiting for me.
My story is still happening.

Every time I think I’ve reached a resolution, something new unfolds.
Every time I think I have learned the lesson, life throws another one at me.

So I ask myself: Where do I stop?

Fiction Has a Theme—Life Has Many

When I write fiction, I go in with a theme in mind.

Maybe it’s about redemption.
Maybe it’s about grief and healing.
Maybe it’s about love, sacrifice, and second chances.

But real life doesn’t work that way.

Cancer wasn’t just a lesson in resilience. It was a lesson in grief. In gratitude. In letting go. In finding joy. In losing people. In gaining self-worth.

And when writing a memoir, I struggle to pin down just one theme because my life doesn’t fit neatly into one message.

It is raw, real, and chaotic.

It is messy and beautiful.

It is too much and not enough all at once.

And yet, if I don’t define a theme—if I don’t give my memoir a backbone—it risks falling apart under the weight of too many emotions.

So I walk the line between authenticity and structure.
Between honesty and narrative.

Between chaos and clarity.

Fiction Lets Me Escape—Memoir Makes Me Confront

Maybe the hardest part of writing my own story is this:

When I write fiction, I can escape.
I can create a world different from my own.
I can put my pain into a character and give them a happy ending.

But a memoir doesn’t let me run away.

It forces me to sit in my past.
To hold up a mirror to who I was.
To relive things I might rather forget.

It is, in many ways, an act of courage.

But here’s the thing—

The memoir is also an act of healing.

It is saying, “This happened. This mattered. And I am here to tell the story.”

And that?
That is more powerful than anything I could ever write in fiction.

The Story I Was Meant to Tell

Writing my memoir has been one of the hardest things I have ever done.

It has challenged me in ways fiction never has.
It has forced me to be uncomfortable, honest, and unfiltered.
It has made me reckon with my past while still living my present.

But it has also made me stronger.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this process, it’s this—

Fiction is about creating something meaningful. A memoir is about proving you already lived something meaningful.

And soon, I will get to share it.

What Do You Think?

If you’ve ever tried to write about your own life, what was the hardest part for you? Was it being honest? Figuring out when to stop? Worrying about how others would react?

Let’s talk about it. Drop your thoughts in the comments!