What I learned when my story was shared in KC Davis's TEDx talk

There's a lot that happens when you start falling apart. One thing I never expected is that I'd forget how to do the dishes.

My arms would hang, heavy like tree trunks. I'd stare at the sink, asking questions like, “Which dish first? How will I reach the bottom of the sink? When will this end?” Eventually, I would walk away in defeat, secretly hoping my cousin would clear them out for me.

Instead of doing the dishes or running the vacuum, I walked around our house with my eyes glazed over. If I wasn't dissociating or avoiding chores, you could have found me in one of two places: lying on the floor where my baby's crib was supposed to be or listening to the leaves as I sat outside.

In the vortex of grief and identity issues cropping up, I remembered the voice of someone whose work centers around care tasks for people who are neurodiverse or struggling with grief. Her name is KC Davis, and her instructions to my mind one day were simple: Wash what you need and leave the rest for when you have some more energy. So I washed the coffee mugs I knew we'd need for the next morning, and I let the rest of the dishes sit in the sink overnight.

Grief changes your energy reserves and how you're motivated

In years past, this would have been unthinkable. I thought doing my dishes made me a good person, a valuable wife and a talented homemaker and designer. I thought that dirty dishes detracted from the beauty and care I'd created everywhere else in my home. Dirty dishes were like leprosy—I treated them as if they could infect everything in my house. I had been paralyzed and run ragged much of my life by the saying: If you know better, then you ought to do better.

But the reality is that unspeakable grief can take every ounce of your will to live, leaving very little energy for dusting the bookshelves. So I began to touch in with how I was feeling, identifying the most generous and kind thing I could give to my broken heart, and somehow, over the last four years, I made it through. Even with dirty dishes piling up in my sink.

The care task lady chose my story

Last year KC Davis sent out an email saying that she was speaking at a TEDx in Denver, and she asked if anyone would like to submit a story about how her work had made an impact on their life. I immediately clicked the link and filled out the form online. I told her about the dishes, about how I had felt like a failure and how her work had helped me walk through one of the most impossibly difficult times of my life.

One day I saw her name show up again in my inbox. The subject line read: Amanda, thank you for your story. She was emailing to say that that my story along with another person's had been chosen to be featured in her TEDx talk. We exchanged a few more emails, as she diligently explained which parts of my story she was going to share. She offered me a VIP ticket to join the event in Denver.

This was a big step for me. I hadn't gone out in public by myself in years. But I knew I wanted to hear her speak. I wanted to meet her and thank her. I made intricate plans for driving into downtown, for parking, for finding my seat, for rehearsing small talk with people who might be sitting next to me. And I made it to my chair. I listened to the other speakers who came before her, and more than an hour into the event, KC came on the stage. It was in this moment that something took me by surprise, something I hadn’t planned for at all.

What I wasn’t expecting

As I sat in a theatre filled with a few hundred people, I heard the rise and fall of others witnessing my life.

They were joining in with the embarrassing, traumatizing, will-I-survive-this chapters in the book of my life.

I felt the hush come over the room.

I heard a few people gasp in sympathy.

I'm pretty sure the woman a few seats down from me was crying.

Tears were streaming down my face the entire time KC was speaking. I lifted out of my seat and saw myself like an astronaut looking down from space. I was being pieced together.

It was as if the whole world was hearing and acknowledging with a resounding chorus: Yes, you were here, and you survived. Yes, your daughter was here, and we know her now.

I couldn't help but think that even if I became a famous, published author one day, I would never get this kind of gift again.

I would never get to squeeze a few hundred people into my living room and ask them to read my story all at once—I would never again receive so many unfiltered reactions to a time that had required so much of me.

A gift I try to give to every writer

If I could, I would drop every writer into a theatre of people who are reading their books, their poems, even their Substack articles. And let them experience what it’s like to feel others reading their work.

What I learned that day is something I think we all can tuck in our pockets: when you share how someone’s story affected you, you’re lifting their story into a different place. By reading and then interacting with them about their work, you’re giving that person a chance to piece together another part of this puzzling thing called life. A like isn't just a like, a comment is never just a comment. The collective voice of readers saying, "I am listening," is powerful beyond measure.

So the next time you read somebody's writing, let them know you were listening. Let them know if it moved you, if it confused you or if you are simmering on what they shared. Writers need to know they're being heard. You never know what gift you could be giving them.

---

A few months after the TEDx event in Denver, KC reached out to me again, asking if I would feel comfortable giving permission for the official TED YouTube channel to share her presentation. You can watch it below.

---