Writing the Pain Away

From Your Newsletter for Christian Writers

I heard Alain de Botton say the phrase "write away the pain" in his answer when someone asked why he writes. It stuck with me.

Those four words say something deep about writing. De Botton isn't a Christian, but he touched on a truth we see all through the Bible—from David's honest psalms to Jeremiah's cries. We write our way through pain, not around it.

You might ask, "Why does writing make me feel better when I'm hurting?"

Here's what I've learned from my own life and from helping over 100 authors:

Writing sorts out the mess. When you're hurt, your thoughts get all mixed up. They swirl around like a tornado. You can't tell where one thought ends and another begins. 

But when you write, something amazing happens. Each thought has to line up, one word after another. You can't write two words at the same time, and this forces your brain to slow down and put things in order. It takes that storm inside you and gives it shape. Once pain has shape, you can look at it and say, "Oh, that's what's bothering me." Then you can face it better. For a bonus, write by hand in your best penmanship. 

It gets the pain out. Have you ever had a song stuck in your head? Painful thoughts work the same way. We think them over and over—sometimes hundreds of times a day. Writing stops that broken record. When you write down "I'm scared that..." or "I'm angry because...", it's like taking that thought out of your head and putting it somewhere else. It moves the pain from inside your head to outside on paper. Your brain can finally rest because it knows the thought is saved somewhere. Just naming what hurts can help more than you'd think.

Writing gives you space. Here's something strange but true: when you write about pain, you become two people. You're the person feeling the pain AND the person watching yourself feel it. It's like stepping outside yourself for a minute. When you write "I felt so alone when...", you're not drowning in loneliness anymore—you're looking at it. You're studying it. This little bit of distance is like coming up for air when you've been underwater. That space helps you breathe and think clearly again.

It helps you find meaning. Pain without purpose feels unbearable. It's just hurt for no reason. But when pain teaches us something and helps us grow or understand others better, it changes everything. Writing is like detective work for your heart. As you write, you start to see patterns. You notice things like, "This reminds me of when God helped me through _________," or "Maybe someone else needs to hear this story." Writing helps us see what we're learning. It turns hurt into a story, and stories heal both the teller and the listener.

God shows up when we're honest. This is the most important part. David didn't (seem to) clean up his psalms before presenting them to God. He wrote things like "How long will you forget me?" and "Why are my enemies winning?" He even wrote about wanting to smash his enemies' children against rocks. That's pretty raw, but God kept every one of those messy prayers in the Bible. Why? Because He wants our real selves. When we write honestly to God, we're praying. And somehow, in that honest space, God meets us. Not always with answers, but always with presence, and presence is everything. 

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Try This Exercise: The Three-Part Prayer

Set a timer for 15 minutes and write in three parts:

Part 1: Tell God what hurts (5 minutes)
Just dump it all out. Don't edit. Don't make it nice. Write exactly what you're feeling. Start with "God, I'm hurting because _________."

Part 2: Ask God your real questions (5 minutes)
Write the questions you're afraid to ask. "Why did you let this happen?" "Where were you?" "How long will this last?" Be as honest as David was.

Part 3: Listen and write (5 minutes)
Now just write whatever comes. Maybe it's a memory of God's past faithfulness. Maybe it's a Bible verse. Maybe it's just more tears. Whatever comes, write it down.

When you're done, you don't have to do anything with it. You can keep it, burn it, or tear it up. The healing happened in the writing. But for a bonus, share it with someone. 

Don't worry about making it good. Just let the words come out. Let them be messy and real. Let them connect your pain to God.

Your pain isn't the end of your story. Sometimes, it's where your best writing starts.

Keep writing, friend. Even through tears.

Jeff B. Miller

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