By Patricia Rossi
It’s a Thursday evening.
I always arrive early. Rush hour is beginning to wane, but I still take the back roads. Depending on the season, I drive past tree-lined streets, manicured lawns, and blooming gardens. At other times, I’m awe-struck by vibrant bursts of fall foliage. On the chilliest evenings, I embrace the serenity of winter as I pass old colonial homes blanketed in snow. The scenery shifts, but my destination remains the same: a local community center.
Funded by taxpayers, the center is equipped with a pool, tennis courts, and basketball courts. Sometimes the place is alive with teens and adults playing, laughing, running. Other times, it’s quiet—a lone person sitting on a bench. But I’m not there to play sports or swim laps. I’m there for something else. Something far more impactful. Dare I say… life-changing.
Upon arrival, I grab my tote bag—packed with supplies for the night—and head toward the community room. Our room. Our meeting place on the third Thursday of every month. It’s a simple space, with outdated wood paneling and bulletin boards pinned with community announcements. But the decor doesn’t matter. What matters are the women who walk through the door.
One by one, they arrive. Some come together; others linger in the doorway, hesitant. I greet them: “Please, join us.” We form a circle. I pass out writing pads and pens. The room fills with warmth, laughter, and the occasional clank of chairs being pulled into place. I look around and see the bravest, most beautiful group of women I know—women in treatment, in recovery, or supporting someone they love through breast cancer.
They gather, nibble on sweets, and exchange stories—some advice, some laughter, some heartbreak, all wrapped in fortitude. Then I say, “Shall we begin?” And within moments, we begin to write.
I’ve been facilitating writing workshops for years—decades, really. Not just about illness, but about life. We write about the smell of coffee in the morning, the feel of grass under bare feet, a memory from childhood. Sometimes the stories are funny. Sometimes they’re deep and reflective. Often, someone writes for twenty minutes and chooses not to read a word aloud. That’s okay.
You see, the goal isn’t to write something “good.” The goal is to write something true. To let the pen lead you somewhere unexpected. To rediscover the sound of your own voice.
In this space, the pen is far more than a writing instrument—it’s a therapeutic tool.
Writing allows us to process, to express, to remember who we are—especially in the midst of crisis or personal upheaval. It gives us permission to slow down, take a breath, and reconnect with ourselves.
These workshops are intentionally stress-free and nonjudgmental. With a pen in hand, we quiet the mind, open the heart, and support each other in ways that go beyond words.
And time and time again, I am overwhelmed by the transformation.
One woman once told me, “This is the first time in months I’ve felt like I’m more than just a patient.” Another said she hadn’t written since high school but now keeps a journal by her bed. And most of what’s written? It isn’t even about cancer.
It’s about the rest of life that still hums beneath the surface: Music. Friendship. Laughter. Longing. Hope.
We use prompts like: “Write about a place where you feel safe.” Or, “Describe a time you surprised yourself.” These invitations open doors—back to memory, to imagination, to identity.
And that’s the point. When cancer disrupts your story, writing helps you remember: You are still the author.
Even when life takes you on a journey you never asked for, you still get to choose how you show up on the page.
So if I can leave you with one thing: Write. Just write.
Get a pretty journal, or one of those black-and-white marble notebooks from grade school. Open it. Take a deep breath. Exhale.
The blank page isn’t something to fear—it’s a space waiting just for you.
Start small. A word. A sentence.
Start today.
