The sky began to pour. Beads of water dribbled across my windshield, and oak branches snapped in two from trees lining the driveway of the house where I was living this winter.

Today, two storms descended at once: the one pattering on the metal rooftop of my car and the one hijacking my brain chemistry. My body pulsed with anxiety as if there were strawberry Pop Rocks detonating one by one in my bloodstream. I wanted out. Out of this car, out of my body. Writhing under the frayed strap of my seat belt, I turned my gaze heavenward and yelled at the top of my lungs: God, where are you?!

I couldn’t face one more day of it. Not when the rest of the world appeared so incredibly fine. The windshield fogged up from heat, and an uncontrollable fury built within my chest until there was no option but to let it out. Out! Out! Out! Without thought, I thrust my closed fist as hard as I could into the windshield. It cracked, forming delicate trails of glass in all directions like a frozen lake…

I wrote this scene from 2015 to try and express what it was like living with PMDD. It’s part of a much larger story now. I’m a 34-year-old California girl and have likely had this condition since I was 18, though I didn’t know about the diagnosis until a colleague mentioned it a few years ago. It made me weep to realize this was a biological issue, and I wasn’t broken. For me, these monthly hormone fluctuations cause a mixture of intense rage and grief and usually last for 1-2 days at a time. As you know, PMDD storms come and go fiercely, but I am slowly learning the rhythm of how to live through them, and one of those ways is through writing.

Therapeutic benefits of writing

I believe the practice of writing is helpful and life-giving for anyone, including those with mental illness and mood disorders. Telling your story is a liberating act. It gives you a voice. It creates order out of chaos. It helps you draw meaning from your experience. Writing is a practice that has no doubt saved my own life. I was a creative writing major in college, but it wasn’t until I began writing as a way to metabolize my life and understand my body’s relationship to chronic pain and mental illness that writing became a healing practice, not just a hobby. And I haven’t stopped.

Of course, no healing practice is a substitute for medical or psychiatric care (this year alone, I’ve seen a functional medicine practitioner, an acupuncturist, an endocrinologist, a primary care physician, a hormone specialist, and an EMDR therapist). But good healthcare is still a privilege, and writing is a simple practice anyone can do. It gives you agency over your suffering, allowing you to become an active participant in your healing journey—something PMDD tries to steal from us.

In Writing As a Way of Healing: How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives, Louise DeSalvo explored the connection between writing and trauma or illness. “Writing…seems to improve physical and mental health,” said DeSalvo. “But not just any kind of writing. Only a certain kind of writing will help us heal.”

Her studies revealed that therapeutic writing requires the act of not just venting or merely describing events but also the emotions surrounding those events. Although it may be unpleasant to unearth and sit with difficult feelings, case studies have shown that when you endure short-term discomfort and keep writing through it, there can be long-term well-being. “The more writing succeeds as narrative,” said DeSalvo, “by being detailed, organized, compelling, vivid, lucid—the more health and emotional benefits are derived.”

Tips for writing about your life

So what’s a good place to start? First, just write and don’t think about it. Especially when you’re in the throes of “hell week” and everything swirling around inside feels chaotic and overwhelming. Just get shit down. Curse, doodle, write nonsensical stream-of-consciousness paragraphs. Vent about your hopes and fears with emotional honesty. You might also try recording it as audio, then transcribing it. Dates are helpful to include, too.

Don’t be surprised if this journaling reads dark and negative. I guarantee you it will—but it’s important to remember that you won’t stay here. Neither will your writing. (I have to tell myself this all the time.)

On a day when you’re back in a steady, peaceful frame of mind, try weaving together a very short story. Start small. Maybe five pages or 500 words. Can you choose one specific example of living with PMDD and integrate it into the broader story of your life? Maybe you call it “A Day in the Life of _______.”

As you paint a vivid scene, reflect on what PMDD has shown you about yourself and others, what it stirs in you. Weave in these reflections. Remember, you’re not just venting or stating what happened now—you’re also thoughtfully writing about the emotions surrounding this experience. So, instead of jotting down curse words or saying, “My brain snapped and I threw a cup across the room,” you might say, “My brain snapped and I threw a cup across the room, which only made my stomach sear with guilt. My roommate Mary had just finished washing the dishes, and here I was throwing things again. But this behavior didn’t feel like me. Not the version of me I loved. Not the me that ached to believe I was still loved during these episodes. Tears pooled at the sides of my eyes as I picked up the cup again from the living room rug.”

As you write from the heart, use lots of sensory details. Draw from the notes you took earlier. Emotional memory is so closely tied to things like music and the aroma of food. Writing also helps unearth memories, so the more you write, the more details you may discover (I love this about the creative process!). You might describe the eucalyptus-scented bath salts on the counter or the colored plate you’re holding. Maybe what song is on the radio. How the medicine tasted going down your throat or what a loved one’s sweatshirt feels like as you hold onto it.

The good news is you can take notes anywhere: a voice memo, a notes app, a period tracker, the back of a dirty napkin, a leather journal.

Final thoughts

Viktor Frankl, the Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, believed a meaningful life came from three key sources—loving relationships, courage in the face of suffering, and purposeful work. Writing can tap into all three. On the darkest days, whether that’s during hell week or heartache or illness, you can write to process and honor your pain. Write to make people laugh. Write after the joy of tasting chocolate lava cake in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Write to preserve memory and restore what was lost. Write to seek God’s presence or connect with others who are walking a similar road. Write so you don’t implode. I now have a 73,000-word memoir I’m finishing up (finally!), and though PMDD is a part of it, it’s only one part of it. If you find you want to keep telling your story, add a little more each month once you’ve survived another storm and see where the creative journey takes you.

Even if things don’t get easier right away, writing is a gift that can keep you going. It’s healing. And maybe—just maybe—one day it’ll find its way into the hands of someone else who desperately needs to know they’re not alone.

A writing prompt

There is one place on earth that is my sanctuary, and that is ___________________________.

MEET BAILEY

Bailey is from Northern California, where she works as a freelance writer and the Marketing Copywriter at William Jessup University. She’s also a former massage therapist and loves talking about all things writing, wellness, and spiritual formation.

Follow Bailey on Instagram @bailey_bluebird and sign up for her monthly Substack letter.