DIARY OF A GHOSTWRITER

When Clients Confess Their Truths

There is a weight that comes with hearing the truth.

Not the polished version.

Not the story people tell at brunch or post online.

The real one.

The one that only comes out when the door is closed, the recorder is on, and the voice starts to shake before the words arrive.

When you decide to hear another person’s story—really hear it—capturing their essence and repeating their lived experience is not easy for the storyteller or the writer. It requires presence. It requires restraint. It requires respect. You are not just transcribing words; you are stepping into someone else’s emotional weather and staying steady while the storm passes through.

People think ghostwriting is quiet work.

It’s not.

It’s loud inside the nervous system.

Putting yourself in someone else’s space mentally, emotionally, and imaginatively has a real impact on the body. Even when parts of the story are retold, reshaped, or revisited, the emotional imprint is real. The body does not distinguish between memory and moment. It responds to truth the same way every time—tight chest, shallow breath, tears that arrive without permission.

Sessions can become heavy.

Sometimes overwhelming.

Sometimes sacred.

There are moments when a session has to be cut short—not because something went wrong, but because something finally went right. The storyteller reaches the edge of what they’ve been carrying alone. Their voice cracks. Silence stretches. Tears fall. And in that space, something shifts.

Those are healing tears.

They are not weakness.

They are release.

They mark the moment when the story stops living only in the body and finally finds language. When the burden is named. When the weight is acknowledged. When the storyteller realizes they don’t have to keep carrying it in silence.

This is the coming-into moment.

The pause before elevation.

For many clients, this is the first time they have allowed themselves to feel the story fully—without minimizing it, without justifying it, without rushing past it to prove strength. They sit with it one last time, not to relive the pain, but to reclaim themselves from it.

That’s why I don’t rush this part.

And I don’t avoid it.

It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to feel.

It’s okay to experience it one final time.

Because this isn’t just closure.

It’s the final countdown to healing.

After that moment, the story changes. It no longer lives as an open wound. It becomes a scar—proof of survival, not evidence of damage. The nervous system exhales. The body softens. The words that follow are clearer, steadier, truer.

And for me, as the ghostwriter, there is responsibility in that space.

I hold the container without inserting myself.

I witness without directing.

I translate without distorting.

I stay grounded so they can fall apart safely.

That balance matters. If I drift, the work suffers. If I absorb too much, my own body pays the price. So I listen with intention, not attachment. I remain present, not entangled. I honor the story without carrying it home with me.

Still, there is always an aftershock.

When the session ends, there is a quiet that follows. A calm that settles in once the emotional storm passes. It’s gentle. Almost reverent. Like the air after heavy rain. That’s when I know the work was honest.

That’s the calm after the storm for me.

And the promise of the rainbow.

Not because everything is suddenly perfect, but because something heavy has been set down. The story has been spoken. The truth has been honored. And healing—real healing—has officially begun.

I don’t take that lightly.

I never will.

Because when someone trusts you with their truth, you don’t just write it.

You protect it.