Reader: “Very powerful. Thank you. I need to read a few more times.”
Mary: “I’m so glad it resonated with you. This story asks for a slow read, and I’m touched that you’re sitting with it more than once. Thank you.”

Reader: “Beautiful. Thank you for reminding us that even the simplest life experiences can make powerful stories. Loved this piece.”
Mary: “That means a lot—thank you. I’ve learned that the smallest moments are often the ones that stay with us the longest. I’m so glad this one landed gently with you.”

Reader: “I love this. I am going to have to sit with this and listen to what it might mean for telling my own stories.”
Mary: “I’m so touched—thank you. I’ve found that when we sit with a story, it often starts to speak back. I hope yours rises gently when it’s ready to be told.”

Reader: “I love the message of this piece, and I would connect it with the reflectiveness that comes with age...”
Mary: “Thank you so much for this. I feel every word. There’s a depth that comes with time—one that doesn’t rush to impress, but lingers in the quiet. Rejection from younger gatekeepers can sting, but our voices carry something they haven’t yet lived. Keep going. The world needs the stories only you can tell.”

Reader: “Thank you for this. I find myself writing about these moments, then think they won’t make a story because there’s no action.”
Mary: “That means so much—thank you. I’ve been there too, wondering if quiet moments are enough. But they absolutely are. Sometimes, it’s the gentlest stories that leave the deepest mark. Don’t stop.”

Reader: “Mary, I am printing out your blog post today, because my memoir manuscript sits in limbo at its seventh iteration...”
Mary: “Thank you—truly. Your words moved me deeply. I know that limbo space well, where we’re still shaping the story, and wondering if it will ever fit into the categories the industry seems to want. I’ve come to believe that subtle doesn’t mean small. Quiet doesn’t mean weak. And nuance is not a flaw—it’s a strength, even if not everyone sees it right away. I’m honored that line resonated. It took me a long time to stop calling it a comeback and start honoring it as life—slow, honest, unfolding. Please keep writing. You’re already in the heart of it.”

Reader: “I read your story and tears came to my eyes from its sad content...”
Mary: “Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. It means a great deal to know the story reached you. Writing about illness can feel vulnerable, but responses like yours remind me that honesty has its own quiet strength. Blessings to you as well.”

Reader: “Thank you for this Mary. It resonates deeply with me and gives me a different perspective for my memoir. Blessings to you!”
Mary: “I’m so grateful it resonated with you. That quiet shift in perspective can be everything when we’re deep in the work of memoir. Wishing you clarity and courage as you shape your story—and blessings to you as well.”

Reader: “You sent me back to my own words, Mary, both with your universal ‘woman in the mirror’ and your ‘life unfolding quietly’ imagery...”
Mary: “Margaret, your words moved through me like a current—steady, deep, and unforgettable. That mirror moment, the grief of the body, the ache of being left behind—thank you for bringing it here. And your second passage... that quiet shift, that almost imperceptible healing, is exactly the kind of unfolding I wanted to name in this piece. I’m honored that something in my story sent you back to your own. That’s the quiet magic of this kind of work—we echo one another back to ourselves. I’d be so grateful to stay connected with you at marymonokyspeaks.com. Let’s keep walking this path together.”

What Stillness Taught Me About Story

By Mary Monoky

I didn’t set out to write a story. I set out to survive.

After decades of illness, caregiving, and uncertainty, I moved seven hundred miles from suburban Philadelphia to a small town in the South. My oldest son had just gotten married and asked me to come. Not out of obligation—out of love. It was a quiet, astonishing invitation: “I want you here.”

In that new town, with my body still fragile and my identity in flux, I returned to school. I finished a Master’s degree I’d once abandoned. I launched a laundry service for senior citizens, picking up soiled linens and returning them fresh and folded. I made a friend, a real one—the kind you sit with on a rainy afternoon and say things out loud you didn’t know you needed to say. I didn’t call this reinvention. I didn’t call it a comeback. It was just life, slowly returning.

I thought my story—the way I lived it—was quiet. So quiet, I doubted anyone would care to hear it.

But quiet doesn’t mean empty. And stillness doesn’t mean standing still. For me, stillness became the slow return to presence—the moments between the chaos, where life didn’t demand a performance. It was in the folding of a towel, the sound of a teacup placed gently on a saucer, the steady rhythm of a life quietly rebuilding. It was motion, yes—but rooted, deliberate, and full of meaning.

I couldn’t stop thinking about one of my laundry clients, a woman named Ethel. She was over ninety, sharp as a tack, with a curated apartment full of books and fine china that hinted at her past as a New York socialite. She would invite me in for tea. One afternoon, she looked in the mirror and said, “Mary, I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. Who is that old lady in the mirror?”

We both laughed. But beneath the laughter was something tender and true—a silent recognition of how strange and startling it is to age, to see your outer self shift while your inner self stays the same.

In that moment, something shifted. I’d seen that face—my own—reflected back at me with that same shock, that same quiet ache. I didn’t say it aloud, but I felt the sting of recognition. The years I’d lost to illness. The parts of myself that had faded under fluorescent hospital lights. The truth of her words rang louder than any medical crisis or dramatic plot twist. That line held everything.

And it whispered to me: write that.

So I did.
Not the headlines of my life. Not the turning points that looked good on paper. I began with the still places. The in-between spaces. Because that’s where I’d felt most human.

Telling my story—without drama or climax—taught me something unexpected: stillness has its own narrative weight.

As writers, we’re often trained to seek momentum—significant events, turning moments, the big emotional payoff. Especially in memoir, there’s pressure to magnify the trauma or spin a grand arc of triumph. But when I sat down to write, what called to me weren’t the headlines. It was the folds in between.

The mirror scene with Ethel. The slow return of connection. The quiet realization that in folding others’ laundry, I was also unfolding myself.

Each towel I folded was an act of care. But it was also something else—a meditation, a small ritual. A moment to feel the fabric in my hands—and in some quiet, unexpected way, to feel the texture of my own being returning to me.

These weren’t action-packed scenes. They weren’t filled with conflict or climax. But they held something just as essential: resonance. Subtle movement. And a kind of truth that lingers.

Memoir doesn’t always require spectacle. It requires presence. And it requires attention to the moments we almost overlook—because often, that’s where the shift begins.

When I first started writing, I had a long list of events I could include. Medical records. Diagnoses. Cross-country moves. But I kept asking myself: what does the reader actually need? What helps them feel the story?

Not everything I lived belonged on the page. That was one of the hardest lessons.

What shaped the story wasn’t the full chronology—it was what I chose to illuminate: the moments that lingered, the ones that quietly carried weight.

And once I stopped trying to prove the story was important, I could simply let it be.

If you’re writing memoir and wondering whether your story is “big enough,” I offer this:

Write toward the moments that echo. The ones that don’t demand attention but stay with you anyway. The ones that pull you back, quietly, like a tide. Often, they contain everything.

Don’t underestimate a glance. A pause. A line of dialogue that sticks. That might be the moment that breaks something open.

If a scene stirs something in your chest before it makes sense in your mind, trust that. It might not be the climax. It might not be loud. But it might be the heart of the piece.

My story didn’t come with a grand declaration or a cinematic ending. It came with a mirror, a folded towel, and a cup of tea shared in quiet companionship.

And as it turns out, that was enough.

And enough, I’ve learned, can be a very powerful story.

✍️ Thank-You Note to Brevity Readers

Dear readers and fellow writers,

I want to thank each of you who took the time to read and respond to my post, What Stillness Taught Me About Story, on the Brevity Blog. Your comments were thoughtful, generous, and deeply affirming.

Writing about stillness—especially the kind that comes not from peace, but from illness, uncertainty, or loss—is an intimate act. To see those words received with such care reminded me why we tell stories in the first place: to feel less alone, to name what’s been unnamed, and to offer something real in the quiet spaces between us.

Whether you saw yourself in the stillness or simply sat with mine for a moment, I’m grateful. Thank you for listening. Thank you for seeing. And thank you for showing up—not just for my story, but for your own.

With deep appreciation,
Mary Monoky