Walking the Line: Protecting a Private Life in the Public Eye

Choosing what we share and what we protect

I was recently interviewed on the podcast Bounce Back Stronger with Donna Ferris when she asked me how I decide what to share in my writing. What’s personal and what remains private? How do I walk that line?

People walk that line, not just writers and artists. With the prevalence of social media, we decide what we want to share and how real we want to be with the people in our larger social network. It’s easy to post about being in love, but it’s hard to find words for all-consuming grief. It’s simple to post about our happiest days, but it’s painful to talk about the days where we don’t know how we’ll go on. So, how do we decide what is up for public viewing and what isn’t?

How to Draw the Line Between Public & Private

It’s a good question and one I’ve thought about since the first time I decided to share my work on a public platform. After years of silence and shrinking, I wanted my writing to be brave and bold — but most of all, I wanted it to be authentic. I needed to tell the truth after years of pretty white lies meant to hide how much I was struggling in the life I’d chosen. If I was going to do things differently, I needed to start with a level of raw honesty I had never before attempted on a public scale.

Drawing the Line

At the time, I was going through a divorce, and I knew I needed to draw some lines. I shared children with the person I was divorcing, and I needed to tell my story while protecting theirs. I wasn’t going to name names or list crimes against my heart. I was going to talk about the ways I surrendered power in my life and relationship — and how I got it back.

If there was a spotlight, I put it on me. I made it about where I’d been and where I was going. The focus was never meant to be on the other person. I brought main character energy to my work. The focus was always going to be on my growth trajectory, on my mistakes, and on how I was learning to be better. I had no control over anyone else. I couldn’t even begin to tell a story that wasn’t my own.

Adjusting the Line

That was just the beginning. The next time I entered into a relationship, it didn’t take long to realize that writing about my life and relationships could be problematic. At least, that partner certainly thought so. He went from being an enthusiastic supporter of my work, at least on the surface, to constantly criticizing every topic I chose. I was still walking a line, and before long, I realized that owning my truth and working toward a healthier life meant leaving that relationship.

I thought it was settled. I couldn’t let a partner get between me and my work. It wasn’t just a job with a paycheck, although I have supported my children from it. It was also a way to reclaim my power and to help other people in their healing journey. But if I thought the matter was permanently put to rest, I was wrong.

I fell in love again. Or for the first time. I can never quite decide. This was different. It felt bigger than the two of us and inevitable. Maybe it was just all in my head, but I’ve never been more certain about another person.

The writing didn’t seem to be a problem. For a long time, it wasn’t. It was something we shared, a craft we both loved. But I kept trying to find that line again — the one between my private life and my public one. I was committed to authenticity and to healing, but I was also committed to this person who was important to me.

Blurring the Lines

When we began to struggle within the relationship, I struggled walking that line. Sometimes, I’m sure I crossed it without thinking about the ramifications or understanding how my words would be received. I’m not a perfect person, and I made mistakes, but I kept looking at the line and trying to decide what I could share and what I could keep to myself.

Even after that relationship ended, it was a constant balancing act. I needed to heal and process my grief. I needed somewhere that I could let out that raw roar of resistance and pain. I went to therapy. I developed hobbies. I coped with all the strength I could muster.

But at the end of the day, writing is still the thing that has saved me time and time again. I could talk about it until I was blue in the face, until my friends wanted to pull their hair out in frustration, until my therapist began to redirect me away from the sinkhole of my devastation. I could do all of that, and I did. But I still needed to sit down and allow words to fill a page.

Standing By My Line

I could have kept them to myself. I could have tucked them away in some private journal. I could have protected his feelings and hidden mine. But I was being consumed by so much love and grief, and I’ve learned one very important lesson along my writing journey: Our human experiences need the light to heal. Not a spotlight, turned on another person. They simply need out of us. They need air and light and acknowledgement.

I told Donna during our podcast time that the line I’ve always drawn between what to share and what to keep private comes down to one thing: accountability. I will always choose to focus on my personal experience and my accountability in relationships rather than focusing on the other person. It’s not about them or what they did or didn’t do. It’s about me. My choices, thoughts, and feelings. My experience of loving and losing.

I stepped outside of that comfort zone following that devastating breakup, and I shared my pain. I allowed my grief to seep into my words. I gave it my longing and my loss. My failed dreams, my dashed hopes. I put my broken heart into words so that I could begin to piece it together.

After some time of healing, I spoke up about my shame. I talked about the humiliation of sharing so publicly how much I had loved another person only to have to share how it had all fallen apart. I wrote about how foolish I felt in the aftermath, how I would cringe away from my own enthusiastic writing on love with the full knowledge that it was rejected. I wrote about how hard I tried to move on and how long it took — and the shame of trying and failing to let go of the love long after he’d moved on. I put my heart on that line and stepped on it again and again.

If it seemed like I shared too much, there was much I kept private. I do know how to protect a private life. To keep secrets. To have things that are only ever for me and me alone.

Walking the Line, Imperfectly

But as I kept writing about grief and love, it wasn’t being received in a void. I kept getting messages that validated my writing. I wasn’t the only one going through such a devastating heartbreak. They might have read my story, but they were thinking of their own. My experience was wholly human and terribly universal. I sent my words out like a life raft, and if others were hanging on to it, I know I was doing the same thing.

So, that’s my line. That’s always been my line. The other people in my stories could be interchangeable. After all, I’ve repeated lessons often enough. It’s not about them at all. It’s not a way of seeking revenge or directing anger their way. It was the only way I could truly heal.

I looked at my patterns. I investigated my trauma. I brought full accountability to the healing process and tried to learn from those difficult experiences. I kept the spotlight, if there was any, on me.

When I talked about love bombing, I did it from the perspective of recognizing it, experiencing it, and learning how to avoid it in the future. When I wrote about gaslighting and emotional abuse, it was to help others understand and acknowledge their own experiences of this manipulative behavior. I wrote about my poor boundaries and how I made them stronger. I wrote about my communication skills and how hard it was to improve upon them. My relationships were only the backdrop to a larger story of growth, and if it seems like I used them for material, that’s not ever how it worked.

Writers and artists of all kinds walk a line. We decide what to share and what to hold close. We make choices, and we don’t always make the right ones.

I was public in my love and private in my grief for so long. When denial became pointless, I learned that sharing my grief didn’t lessen it, but it did help the healing process — for me and for others. When balancing on that line becomes a challenge, I remember that, and it keeps me steady.