Testimonials from people who joined workshops.

Tracy Koller, MS, FNP-BC, NP-C, RN

I met these strangers--walking into the virtual room with no expectations in my backpack but arms heavy from buckets of vulnerability, grief, and anxiety. Carrying these weighted emotions had burdened me. Burdened not only me, but also my body, my relationships, and my work. As the weeks passed, as the gentle open hearts welcomed me in, the strain in my arms from the intense pull of those buckets lessened. I shared my fears, not by venting but by writing them into brief little pieces, like square sections of a quilt. 

Today, the quilt is not nearly complete: corners and sides are missing here and there. But this tapestry is taking shape--showing the anguish of what a global pandemic has done to just one healthcare worker, just one Nurse Practitioner, just one empath caring for others as she attempts to save herself.  Save herself from the attacks, the lies, the conspiracy theories, the discouragement, the fatigue, the burnout… most importantly, from the virus.

Today I may walk out of that virtual room, leaving the safety of my new writing family behind, but in my backpack I’ll take with me the gifts of understanding, kindness, warmth, and peace.  My arms are a little lighter now and maybe, just maybe, I can consider leaving my buckets at the door.

Tarah Salazar, RN, BSN

Dear New Graduate,

Scared, overwhelmed, simultaneously alone and crowded by new emotions, diagnoses, and situations you were never taught in nursing school. Quickly bouncing from one room to another, trying desperately to get caught up in a shift that started only thirty minutes ago, yet somehow you already appear to be behind on pain medications and updating whiteboards. To the new nurse whose heart is pounding, riddled with anxiety that the slightest mistake or misstep could be a defining moment for patients presenting with such medical fragility and struck with grief that in a slight turn events, any one of these people could be your mother, father, sibling or best friend, each owning a story they may never get a chance to tell.

In the midst of external chaos and internal turmoil, I invite you to slow down for a moment and examine the advertisement on the screen, a divine intervention of sorts, inviting you into a world of creativity and exploration. A journey into the realm of imagination, expression, and connectivity in a modern society so divided by politics and religion and isolated by fear of disease and death. Ponder the invitation, as it was meant specifically for you.

To the adolescent emerging into adulthood, with a dream of creating, of captivating audiences, of sharing the stories of many whose voices may otherwise never be heard, whose perspectives are too often brushed aside and forgotten entirely, I challenge you to tighten your grip, get comfortable in the uncomfortable, and become a story teller. There is a special kind of magic in writing, in putting pen to paper, in allowing your emotions to form words, flowing out from your fingertips like tears from your eyes in moments of sadness or laughter, escaping your soul in a state of pure sorrow or joy. I dare you to let your worlds collide, to merge into one and become a more beautiful and true reality then you could have ever imagined. I encourage you to show up, in front of strangers, and shed your heavy armor, seeking strength and guidance from the vulnerability that binds us all together.

I want you to know that your words are more powerful than you believe them to be, and that the time spent in these workshops, with these people, sharing stories of failures and triumphs, beliefs and dreams, emotions you so mistakenly believe to be personal only to you will eternally bond you to humanity and to the truth that we are never alone through the treacherous waters of life.

Let this voyage serve as a reminder that even those who are healers require healing, sanctuary from the commotion, freedom from guilt and shame. Allow the spark within you to ignite, to burn with passion and dedication to a realm of endless possibilities, illustrated by words strung together with grace and vulnerability. Shed light in a place so easily consumed by darkness, as you become the narrator of your story.

Best regards,

Tarah Salazar, RN, BSN

Scared nurse, timid writer, and The Things They Carry alumna

Molly P.

Dear Dr. Malawista,

We have never met, but you have undoubtedly changed the course of my life. 

I am an ER doctor in California and was on my way to get groceries on a random Wednesday this summer when your NPR piece with Dr. Schmitz came on and I unexpectedly found myself viscerally sobbing. I had to pull my car over as my body heaved and an unappealing mixture of saliva, snot, and tears fell in fat drops on the console. Ironically, I was out of kleenex and had to use an old surgical mask as a tissue.

I signed up for a Things They Carry Project workshop with Ruth Neubauer and Sally Steenland and remember their looks of empathy, and at times horror and perhaps pity when I shared my writing. It was clear that what was “no big deal” to me because it was “not nearly as bad as NY and India” was actually still pretty intense and not at all normal in the real world. Their kindness and sensitivity held up a mirror for me to look at my rather traumatic pandemic experiences more objectively and start to process and grieve.

Unbeknownst to me, the writing prompts from the project you created ended up cracking open the secret box I had nailed shut and pushed down as far as it would go. It was on another random Wednesday, two days after my final workshop, that the box blew open and a quiet, peaceful, matter-of-fact statement made itself known.

“I am done. I have given enough and it is okay for me to walk away and be happy again.”

Leaving medicine was something I had literally never consciously thought about before, but it was also exactly right. I tendered my resignation and worked my last shift two weeks ago. I don’t know how my next chapter will unfold, but I am certain it will be with more hope and happiness thanks to you.

Warmly,

Molly P.

Casey

This project is incredible! So proud of my cohort, and so very pleased that you created this project—truly life changing.

Not sure if this was relayed or not, but our group has decided to continue writing together because we formed such a magical bond.

Thank you again for your creation.

Patti Bartholomew Heaps, RN BSN

The Things They Carry project was the first project that acknowledged that we do carry the pain and suffering of patients and families.  And after a while, we become burdened because those stories and feelings stick to us like velcro.  Those feelings and memories are hard to shake off Kerry!  The writing pulled those stories out of us and the sharing made us feel not alone in our grief and exhaustion. 

I hope to have more opportunities to participate in this type of process.  Your therapists were excellent...they had the skill to listen and lead the group well. The structure worked and was a gift to me and I am sure many others.

With Sincere Gratitude,

Patti Bartholomew Heaps, RN BSN

Austin, Texas

Rebecca Caine, MD

Thank you for this. I was grateful for the opportunity to participate in this project. The concept of the middle ground makes perfect sense in helping me process the complicated emotions.

Laura Simmons

Context: Our “The Things They Carry” cohort stayed together for an additional six weeks following the four-weekprogram. Our writing prompts expanded: each week we would do a ‘warm-up write’ for 15 minutes using a one-word prompt, and then we would write for another 15 minutes using a lengthier prompt. This was written during our last meeting. The one-word writing prompt was “Miracles”—not something supernatural, but something unexpected or amazing—something you have seen that feels surprising to you.

Here is what I wrote.

The miracle of community never ceases to amaze me, even though ‘community’ was part of my doctoral studies. For years, I taught my students that “community is built through powerful shared experiences.” I noticed it after the Northridge quake hit. When I went out walking later that day, everyone stopped to talk. We had nothing in common, and then there was something.

The pandemic was like that too—everyone has experienced supply-chain shortages, from toilet paper to PPE to baby formula. Everyone has lived through some sort of lockdownmandaterestrictionlimitationsurrender. By this time, everyone knows someone who’s gotten sick from COVID.

I stumbled last weekend upon a stunning cat video, in which a man recorded his cat meowing a few tones and built a whole song on it. He posted it—and musicians from all over the world joined him. Now there is both a symphonic version and a funk version of this guy riffing on a cat’s meow!

I love the way creativity has been birthed of tragedy. Remember the Italians singing on their balconies, dancers each in their own home choreographing a piece, innumerable choirs singing via Zoom, and even individuals’ creating their own choirs?

HOW miraculous is it, then, that someone said, “Hey—how about we bring writers and therapists together to hold space for frontline workers to write about their experiences?” We are from two coasts and two countries. We have taken “the things we carried” and shared them—and helped shoulder what others were carrying, too. We finished…and we ALL came back for more! Our facilitators are volunteers—they don’t get a penny for the hundreds of dollars in time that they donate to us every week.

We made each other smile, and laugh, and sometimes cry. We jumped in with both feet to write about the pain in the pandemic, then we spread our wings to write other things.

Thank you—all of you—for being part of this miracle, our miracle.