Because I had told the truth about my pain when it was happening, and because a professional had written that truth down plainly, there was, when I needed it most, an unimpeachable account of what had actually been wrong with me and what had not.

He had gambled that my history of seeking help would read as weakness.

Instead it read as exactly what it was: a woman grieving normally and getting the support that grieving people need.

I think about that whenever I hear someone say they are afraid to get help because it might be used against them someday.

Sometimes the honest record of your struggle is the very thing that saves you.

Mine was.