Maybe It's Time to Share Your Story — This Writing Retreat Is for You

I never would have imagined, growing up as a queer kid in the small coastal town of Pacific Grove, that one day we would celebrate Pride here at home. And I never would have dreamed that my family would be standing there with me, surrounded by neighbors, color, singing, laughter, and love.

And yet, here we are.

This week, as our community gathered to raise the inclusive flag, I was filled with joy, gratitude, and pride for this town and the people who continue to show up with courage, kindness, and heart.

But more subtly, underneath it all, I recognize a sense of healing. Because for me, Pacific Grove is not just a postcard town, though its beauty is undeniable.

It is the place where you can watch the sunrise over the water at Lovers Point in the morning and the sea and sky turn to fire over Asilomar in the evening. Where the fog rolls in thick and quiet and then, miraculously, burns off into the most glorious afternoons. Where the smell of salty air and eucalyptus inspires something in you more reliably than a cup of coffee. Where an evening stroll can clear your mind and restore a peace you forgot existed.

It is the place where dolphins surface off the coast, where monarchs flutter through on their way somewhere sacred, where hawks ride the thermals overhead and remind you, if you are paying attention, that miracles are always present.

For nearly twenty years, the noise, pace, and sheer density of life in New York City made it easy to keep moving, to keep performing, to never quite have to be still.

Coming back to Pacific Grove has given me eyes I did not have before.

Because this used to be the place where I learned to hide. Behind the library. In the dugout. In the back row of every classroom. Behind a facade that felt safer than being true. And behind a closet door I kept shut for too many years.

It's the place where I convinced myself that being seen was too risky.

And this week, watching love and belonging rise in the very place where I once felt I had to make myself small, I was reminded of something I now know in my bones:

Telling the truth is healing.

Not necessarily all at once or without fear.

But slowly, honestly, and in the right kind of space, sharing our story can bring us back to ourselves. And when we do, something unexpected happens. Others feel permission to do the same.

The Stories We Carry

Many of us carry stories quietly.

Stories of grief.

Stories of family.

Stories of faith.

Stories of illness.

Stories of divorce, motherhood, identity, reinvention, loss, love, survival, or starting over.

Stories of the version of ourselves we had to become in order to make it through.

Sometimes we keep those stories inside because we are not ready. Because we do not have the words. Because we wonder if our experience really matters. Because we are afraid of what might change if we finally speak our truth out loud.

For many years, even after I stopped hiding behind that closet door, I carried the weight of my deeper story quietly.

I did not have the language for everything I had lived through. I did not know how to articulate the fear, the loneliness, or the strange ache of being surrounded by people and still feeling unseen.

Like many people, I learned how to survive by censoring myself. Choosing my words carefully. Mindful of my mannerisms. Guarded with how much of myself I allowed anyone else to see.

On the outside, I could still be funny. I could still achieve, lead, create, and show up. But there were deeper parts of me that stayed locked away.

Some stories do that.

They live inside us for years because they are tender. Because some part of us knows that once we share them, something will shift. A resistance will release. A weight will lift. The armor can finally be set down.

That can be beautiful.

But it is also terrifying.

When I Finally Spoke my Truth

In my forties, I began writing more honestly about the boy I used to be.

The closeted teenager. The kid who felt different before he fully understood why. The young person who tried to disappear and, at other times, tried to become so bright, funny, and theatrical that nobody could see how scared he really was.

I wrote about survival. I wrote about becoming. I wrote about the moments when I almost did not make it, and the small acts of grace that helped me stay.

One of the most vulnerable pieces I have ever written is a chapter titled "A Hand in the Dark," published in the anthology What Survives the Storm: Stories of Grit, Grace and the Strength We Didn't Know.

I was seventeen. The house was empty. The kitchen smelled like warm milk, yeast, cinnamon, and sugar. I was baking braided cinnamon bread. And in the middle of that ordinary afternoon, I came dangerously close to not being here.

Then the mail arrived.

A letter from my sister in Mozambique.

I still remember her handwriting on the envelope. Rounded. Steady. Familiar. My name was written as it mattered.

That letter interrupted the darkness.

It did not fix everything. It did not magically make me okay. But it helped me make it through the next hour. And sometimes, the next hour is the miracle.

I kept that story inside me for more than twenty years.

Not because it did not matter, but because it mattered so much, I did not know if I was allowed to say it out loud.

Writing it was hard, but publishing it was even harder.

There is a particular kind of trembling that happens when you take something you once kept hidden and allow it to be seen. Even when you know it may help someone. Even when you believe in the purpose of the work. Even when you are ready.

The body remembers.

But something happened when I let that story out.

I felt less alone.

And others did too.

That is the part I did not fully understand until I began sharing my truth more openly: our stories aren't just about us.

When we share with care and intention, our stories become bridges.

Someone else reads a line and thinks, "I thought I was the only one."

Someone else sees a sentence and exhales.

Someone else connects with your courage and feels a little more permission to tell the truth about their own life.

And that is the sacred exchange of storytelling.

Not performance. Not perfection. Connection.

Maybe You Have a Story Like That Too

Maybe your story is not like mine.

Maybe it is quieter. Maybe it is about a marriage that ended, a parent you lost, a version of yourself you had to leave behind, a moment of grace nobody else witnessed, or a life you had to rebuild piece by piece.

Maybe it is a story you have dismissed because you think it is not dramatic enough.

Maybe it is a story you have avoided because it still feels too tender.

Maybe it is a story you have carried for so long that carrying it has become normal.

But some stories keep asking for our attention because they are ready to move.

Not necessarily into a book. Not necessarily onto a stage. Not necessarily into the world all at once.

Sometimes a story needs a page first. Then a breath. Then a witness.

Why I Created This Retreat

This is why I created the Authentic Storytelling Retreat.

Because I know how much courage it can take to start.

I know what it feels like to have a story inside you and not know where to put it. To wonder if your story matters, if you are a real writer, if you are allowed to say the thing out loud, if anyone would care or understand.

I also know how healing it can be to be in a room where your voice is not rushed, dismissed, or judged.

A room where you do not have to perform your pain.

A room where you do not have to polish your story into something impressive before it is welcome.

A room where your lived experience is honored exactly as it is.

That is the kind of space I want to create.

And bringing people to Pacific Grove for this work feels especially meaningful to me. This is the town where I once learned to hide. Now, it is the place where I get to invite others into truth, creativity, reflection, and voice.

This is a full-circle healing I do not take lightly.

What We Will Do Together

The Authentic Storytelling Retreat is an in-person writing retreat for people who feel called to write from lived experience and take the next step toward sharing their work.

You do not need formal writing experience. You do not need a polished draft. You do not need to know exactly what your story is yet.

You only need a story that keeps asking for your attention.

Over the weekend, we will help you clarify the story you are ready to explore, get words on the page with guided prompts and focused writing time, and practice sharing in a way that feels honest and grounded.

Before we close, we will map out practical next steps to bring your work beyond the retreat, in whatever form fits your voice and your life. That might mean blogging, self-publishing, social media, short-form video, speaking, or simply continuing your writing with more confidence and clarity.

This is not a critique-heavy workshop. It is a guided, encouraging space where every voice is respected. Sharing aloud is encouraged, never required.

Why Pacific Grove

Pacific Grove is a beautiful place to return to yourself.

It is quiet, walkable, and surrounded by coastline that naturally invites reflection. The ocean gives you space to breathe. The fog gives you permission to slow down. The rocks, the waves, the cypress trees, the library, the coastal path, and the little pockets of stillness throughout town all create something rare.

A kind of listening.

During reflection time, you will be encouraged to choose a writing spot that fits your energy. That may be the hotel courtyard, nearby Jewel Park, the Pacific Grove Library, Lovers Point, or the coastal trail.

You do not have to stay at the hotel to participate. Locals are absolutely welcome. If you are nearby and feel called to this work, you can come for the retreat itself and return home at the end of each day.

This Writing Retreat Is for You

This retreat is for you if you have been saying, “Someday I’ll write about that,” and someday keeps getting postponed.

It is for you if you are not sure your story matters, but something inside you keeps whispering that it does.

It is for you if you are ready to stop carrying the story alone.

The Invitation

At the Pride flag raising this week, I kept thinking about what it means to be seen in the place where you once felt invisible.

I often say that flying the Pride flag can save someone’s life because it lets someone know: you are welcome here, you belong here, you are not alone.

And that's also what storytelling can do.

A story can become a flag.

A signal.

A hand in the dark.

A way of saying to someone else, “I made it through this. Maybe you can too.”

That is the kind of storytelling I believe in.

Not storytelling for ego. Not storytelling for performance.

Storytelling as healing. Storytelling as connection. Storytelling as a path back to truth.

If there is a story inside you that has been waiting for your attention, I would be honored to hold space for you this July.

Come to Pacific Grove.

Bring your journal.

Bring yourself.

You do not have to have it all figured out. You just have to begin.

Authentic Storytelling Retreat

Authentic Storytelling Retreat

$333.33

1h 30min

Book Now

July 16–19, 2026

Kimpton Mirador Pacific Grove Monterey

Pacific Grove, CA

Workshop fee: $333.33

Lodging is booked separately. Locals are welcome and do not need to stay at the hotel.

Learn more and save your spot: https://www.johnmothershead.com/about/authenticstorytellingretreat