The joy of learning the Voices of the Year judges chose me as one of the readers to read my post at BlogHer '14 waned very quickly.
It wasn't a lack of pride in a well-written piece, nor was it a lack of understanding what an honor it is to stand on the stage at the BlogHer conference and read in front of 3,000 women. The joy slowly seeping out of my soul and puddling around my feet was based on the fact that I'd need to stand in front of those 3,000 women and read about my mental health.
Or, if we're being specific, my mental illness.
During my senior year of high school, my classmates voted me Most Likely to Be Famous. I imagined winning a Grammy at some point in my life, not standing on a stage talking about how I've wanted to die; how I've attempted suicide; how my anxiety and depression stick with me even on the best of days; how local suicides trigger me.
This was no bright and cheery piece on motherhood. It was deeply, viscerally personal. It was probably the most authentic, stick-to-your-bones piece I had, at that point, ever written.
I felt deeply proud of pressing the Publish button on that piece when I wrote it, of taking the time to submit it for VOTY consideration, but the thought of reading it aloud felt too big. It felt triggering, and I shut down a little bit.
I spent weeks not practicing, ignoring the reality of the situation. Then I spent weeks practicing until I dreamed the words when I woke and thought them again as I drifted to sleep. Then I bought a gorgeous pair of silver shoes because nothing says "I can do this" like a pair of silvery, glittery shoes.
When the evening finally arrived, I walked into the Grand Ballroom with more than just butterflies in my stomach. I literally thought I might vomit. I wasn't a mixture of nerves; I was all nerves.
Elisa Camahort Page, co-founder of BlogHer, took me aside to help get to the bottom of my anxiety, other than the fact that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I'd already imagined tripping, falling, biting my tongue, speaking in tongues, and generally forgetting how to talk.
"You've performed in front of thousands on stage before, so what's the big deal with this one?" Elisa asked.
"This is ... me. Cut open. Up on that stage, not just on a computer screen."
"And that's why you were chosen. Your piece will speak to people, will help people. It is beautiful; it is you."
Oh yes. That "me, too" that we've all experienced in the blogging world. My piece might make someone else feel less alone, less afraid, less likely to stand on the bridge that is any bridge and make a choice that can't be taken back.
I sat backstage with my other VOTY reader friends—and they become your friends even if you'd never met, never read each others' blogs prior—waiting for my name to be called. Next to last. Lots of time to go over Worst Case Scenarios and catastrophize.
And then Deb Rox started talking, said she'd read my piece when I'd initially written it, and I exhaled all the anxiety, all the fear, all the stigma we place on open, frank discussions about mental health and mental illness in this country.
I walked those silver shoes right up to the podium and poured my heart out to an auditorium of men and women I mostly didn't know. My voice caught once, in the place where I feared it might catch, but I read my piece like it was meant to be read: with heart, with authenticity, with shoulders held back out of pride for who I am, mental illness and all.
It remains one of my most humbling and honored accolades I've received as a writer to this date. I received a number of emails after both the stage performance and when the video was released; women wanted to share their stories, to say "me, too." I read and replied to each one.
We all have a story to tell. Some stories look and sound prettier than others, but they all matter. I'm so proud of the fact I found the courage to tell my story, and still so thankful that BlogHer gave me the time and space to share it with others.
What's Your Story?
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Jenna Hatfield (@JennaHatfield) blogs at Stop, Drop and Blog and works at Postpartum Progress, a national non-profit focused on peer support for maternal mental health.