Why Every Woman Should Join A Writing Circle (Even If You "Can't Write")
What happens when women stop apologising for their voices and start using them
I’m sitting in the back corner of the coffee shop, watching a woman stare at her laptop screen like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. She’s been typing and deleting the same sentence for ten minutes, and I recognize that look. It’s the face of someone who used to write fearlessly as a child, filling notebooks with stories and poems, until someone told her to “be more realistic” or “focus on practical things.”
This is the story I hear over and over from my female writer friends. Women who loved creating stories when they were young. Who poured their hearts onto journal pages without pausing. Until teachers or parents or well-meaning adults convinced them their writing “wasn’t that good” or they should “rein it in.”
So they did. For years. Sometimes decades.
Here’s what I know about that woman at the laptop: the blank page isn’t her real problem. It’s the voices in her head—the old feedback that taught her to question whether her stories matter, whether she has the “right” to take up space with her words.
But where you place yourself dictates what you see—and I don’t mean the coffee shop. What matters is who you surround yourself with. What doubts you allow into your head. What kind of feedback you trust about your writing.
The same woman with the same stories burning inside her finds freedom in a supportive community. It all depends on the voices she chooses to listen to.
I’ve watched too many of us carry stories that could help others—stories about parenting, resilience, reinvention, hard choices—and we keep them locked away because we’ve convinced ourselves we don’t have the “right” or “right words” to tell them.
These don’t need to be dark stories or about sharing trauma. The stories are often full of hope, skill, and vitality. But whatever the stories, we need each other to create a sense of belonging. So we’re ready to take the risk of valuing our own voices. Especially when others haven’t.
Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity, as Brené Brown reminds us. When women gather to write, we’re not just sharing stories—we’re honoring each other. We’re inviting creativity. We’re welcoming each other to be brave enough to be seen, to tell the truth, to risk being imperfect on the page.
What Happens When Women Start Writing
There’s this moment that happens in every writing circle, usually around week three. We feel safe with each other. The politeness mask slips and the real voice emerges.
From writing perfectly pleasant pieces about gardening and self-care, we move to less safe stories. We show up with something different. Our hands shake slightly as we talk about a pivotal moment of self-discovery—sitting in a car, gathering courage, taking the step that would change everything.
The room goes quiet. Electric quiet. The kind that happens when truth enters the space.
“I’ve never told that story out loud,” we whisper. “I didn’t even know I wanted to write it until it was there on the page.”
Years of being “nice,” of smoothing edges and softening truths, evaporate. We discover that our real voices—the ones that have been waiting patiently—are far more compelling than we imagined.
Truth-telling captivates you. Once you write one honest sentence, you open a door you didn’t know was closed. Stories that only you can tell start to demand attention. The story about being the only woman in the room. The story about choosing yourself over others’ expectations. The story about failure that led to everything good.
From “I don’t have anything interesting to write about” to bubbling over with stories. The transformation happens when women stop apologizing for their experiences and start claiming them as stories worth telling.
The Magic of Community
Writing alone in your journal versus writing in community is the difference between having a conversation with yourself and being truly heard.
When women gather in a circle, something shifts. Shared vulnerability creates bonds that go deeper than typical friendships. There’s something about reading your work aloud, voice slightly trembling, and having other women nod in recognition.
The feedback isn’t harsh critique. It’s women saying, “Yes, I felt that too,” and “Can you go even deeper here?” It’s feedback that helps you find your voice rather than change it to please others.
When a younger writer reads about anxiety, an older woman offers insights about how that feeling evolved for her over time. When someone shares their immigrant experience, it opens conversations about belonging. Our own writing becomes better informed and inspired.
The accountability is gentle but real. When someone asks about that piece you mentioned last week, you write it. When the group celebrates everyone’s small wins, you want something to share too.
Women get excited when they finally share their first post online. When they finish a difficult piece. When they decide on the name of their publication. These victories, witnessed and celebrated, build confidence that extends far beyond writing.
Where You Place Yourself Changes Everything
Back to the woman in the coffee shop, afraid to claim she’s a real writer.
When writers find supportive community, they let go of saying they’re “not really writers.” They start identifying as writers who also happen to be academics, coaches, mothers, gardeners, or business owners. Small shift. Enormous difference.
Where you place yourself—the community you choose, the questions you entertain, the feedback you seek—determines your view.
If you surround yourself with voices saying, “Who are you to write about that?” you’ll see all the reasons you can’t. If you place yourself among people asking, “What truth are you here to tell?” you’ll see possibilities everywhere.
Women in supportive writing communities don’t just transform their writing—they start showing up differently in their lives. They speak up in meetings. They pitch bigger ideas. They set boundaries. They take up space.
Writing changes us because it requires us to listen to ourselves, to value our own thoughts enough to record and share them, to believe our perspectives matter. These aren’t just writing skills—they’re life skills.
The Stories Are Waiting
Your stories are already there, waiting. The one about the decision that changed everything. The one about the time you surprised yourself with your own strength. The one about what you learned when everything fell apart.
They’re not waiting for you to become a “real writer.” They’re not waiting for you to have more time or the perfect laptop or a cabin in the woods.
They’re waiting for you to sit down, place yourself in the “My Voice Matters” chair, and begin.
The world needs your stories. Not someday—now. Your unique perspective, your hard-won wisdom, your particular way of seeing the world—we’re all waiting for it.
The question isn’t whether you have something worth writing about. The question is: are you ready to claim your place at the table and start telling it?
I’m sitting in the back corner of the coffee shop, watching a woman stare at her laptop screen like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
She’s been typing and deleting the same sentence for ten minutes, and I recognise that look. It’s the face of someone who used to write fearlessly as a child, filling notebooks with stories and poems, until someone told her to “be more realistic” or “focus on practical things.”
This is the story I hear over and over from my female writer friends. Women who loved creating stories when they were young. Who poured their hearts onto journal pages without pausing. Until teachers or parents or well-meaning adults convinced them their writing “wasn’t that good” or they should “rein it in.”
So they did. For years. Sometimes decades.
Here’s what I know about that woman at the laptop: the blank page isn’t her real problem. It’s the voices in her head—the old feedback that taught her to question whether her stories matter, whether she has the “right” to take up space with her words.
But where you place yourself dictates what you see—and I don’t mean the coffee shop.
What matters is who you surround yourself with. What doubts you allow into your head. What kind of feedback you trust about your writing.
The same woman with the same stories burning inside her finds freedom in a supportive community. It all depends on the voices she chooses to listen to.
I’ve watched too many of us carry stories that could help others—stories about parenting, resilience, reinvention, hard choices—and we keep them locked away because we’ve convinced ourselves we don’t have the “right” or “right words” to tell them.
These don’t need to be dark stories or about sharing trauma. The stories are often full of hope, skill, and vitality. But whatever the stories, we need each other to create a sense of belonging. So we’re ready to take the risk of valuing our own voices. Especially when others haven’t.
Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity,
as Brené Brown reminds us. Who doesn’t want all of that?
When women gather to write, we’re not just sharing stories—we’re honouring each other. We’re inviting creativity. We’re welcoming each other to be brave enough to be seen, to tell the truth, to risk being imperfect on the page.
What Happens When Women Start Writing
There’s this moment that happens in every writing circle, usually around week three. We feel safe with each other. The politeness mask slips and the real voice emerges.
From writing perfectly pleasant pieces about gardening and self-care, we move to less safe stories. We show up with something different. Our hands shake slightly as we talk about a pivotal moment of self-discovery—sitting in a car, gathering courage, taking the step that would change everything.
The room goes quiet. Electric quiet. The kind that happens when honesty enters the space.
“I’ve never told that story out loud,” we whisper. “I didn’t even know I wanted to write it until it was there on the page.”
Years of being “nice,” of smoothing edges and softening truths, evaporate. We discover that our real voices—the ones that have been waiting patiently—are far more compelling than we imagined.
Truth-telling captivates you.
Once you write one honest sentence, you open a door you didn’t know was closed. Stories that only you can tell start to demand attention.
The story about being the only woman in the room.
The story about choosing yourself over others’ expectations.
The story about failure that led to everything good.
From “I don’t have anything interesting to write about” to bubbling over with stories. The transformation happens when women stop apologising for their experiences and start claiming them as stories worth telling.
The Magic of Community
Writing alone in your journal versus writing in community is the difference between having a conversation with yourself and being truly heard.
When women gather in a circle, something shifts. Shared vulnerability creates bonds that go deeper than typical friendships. There’s something about reading your work aloud, voice slightly trembling, and having other women nod in recognition.
The feedback isn’t harsh critique. It’s women saying, “Yes, I felt that too,” and “Can you go even deeper here?” It’s feedback that helps you find your voice rather than change it to please others.
When a younger writer reads about anxiety, an older woman offers insights about how that feeling evolved for her over time. When someone shares their immigrant experience, it opens conversations about belonging. Our own writing becomes better informed and inspired.
The accountability is gentle but real. When someone asks about that piece you mentioned last week, you write it. When the group celebrates everyone’s small wins, you want something to share too.
Women get excited when
They finally share their first post online.
They finish a difficult piece.
They decide on the name of their publication.
These victories, witnessed and celebrated, build confidence that extends far beyond writing.
Where You Place Yourself Changes Everything
Back to the woman in the coffee shop, afraid to claim she’s a real writer.
When writers find supportive community, they let go of saying they’re “not really writers.” They start identifying as writers who also happen to be academics, coaches, mothers, gardeners, or business owners.
Small shift. Enormous difference.
Where you place yourself—the community you choose, the questions you entertain, the feedback you seek—determines your view.
If you surround yourself with voices saying, “Who are you to write about that?” you’ll see all the reasons you can’t. If you place yourself among people asking, “What truth are you here to tell?” you’ll see possibilities everywhere.
Women in supportive writing communities don’t just transform their writing—they start showing up differently in their lives. They speak up in meetings. They pitch bigger ideas. They set boundaries.
They take up space.
Writing changes us because it requires us to listen to ourselves, to value our own thoughts enough to record and share them, to believe our perspectives matter. These aren’t just writing skills—they’re life skills.
The Stories Are Waiting
Your stories are already there, waiting. The one about the decision that changed everything. The one about the time you surprised yourself with your own strength. The one about what you learned when everything fell apart.
They’re not waiting for you to become a “real writer.” They’re not waiting for you to have more time or the perfect laptop or a cabin in the woods.
They’re waiting for you to sit down, place yourself in the “My Voice Matters” chair, and begin.
The world needs your stories. Not someday—now. Your unique perspective, your hard-won wisdom, your particular way of seeing the world—we’re all waiting for it.
The question isn’t whether you have something worth writing about. The question is: are you ready to claim your place at the table and start telling it?
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Hi Jeanette, thanks for this amazing post! So insightful and honest, reminding me that where I place myself really matters, and I can reach out and ground in a supportive writing community. I just want to tell you to scroll through the post because it duplicated and I’m sure you’ll want to edit that.