What do I owe?

As a writer, I tell stories.

In my books, I invent places and people. I create lives from scratch and let them unfold however I choose.

But on my blog and social media, the stories are real. They’re pieces of my life. Fragments of truth. Lessons learned the hard way. Great moments of joy.

I tend to share a lot. I’m an open person by nature. And sometimes I share the idea without all the supporting details — because some details are too private and some aren’t just mine to tell. Some belong to other people. Some belong to a version of me that needed privacy to heal.

Which makes me wonder — at what point do I owe the details? Do I owe them at all? Because tonight I’m considering that maybe none of my life stories belong anywhere, because if I’m not willing to be fully open, should I even crack that door?

I’ve learned so much from people brave enough to share their stories. Sometimes their words have given me hope. Sometimes they’ve challenged me. Sometimes they’ve simply reminded me that I’m not alone.

And I hope that something I write does that for someone else.

But maybe the power of a story isn’t in every detail. Maybe it’s in the honesty of the lesson. Maybe it’s in saying, “This happened. I survived. I grew.”

Vulnerability doesn’t require exposure.

Honesty doesn’t require full disclosure.

Maybe as writers — and as humans — we don’t owe the world every chapter. Maybe we just owe it our truth, told with integrity.