People ask me this all the time — “Do you get emotional reading the stories back?”
And honestly? Yeah. I really do.
Sometimes it sneaks up on me. I’ll be sitting there, supposedly editing a few lines, checking spelling, or sorting images for the website — and then I hit a sentence that just wrecks me. No warning. Doesn’t matter how many stories I’ve read, doesn’t matter how much experience I’ve had — some lines just land. They don’t ask permission either.
It happened just the other day, reading back the story of the man in Not As Young As I Once Was. He’s sitting on a bench in a shopping centre — not homeless anymore, but still carrying every moment of it with him. He says something like, “I’m not a big smiler. Not because I’m miserable. Just… smiling is something you earn.”
That line hit me hard.
I sat there for ages thinking about it. How many times I’ve done the same — sat somewhere, trying to look neutral, invisible even, while everything inside me felt like it was one wrong glance away from spilling out. That story could’ve been me, a few years back. Scratch that — it was me. Different town, different bench maybe, but the same weight.
The stories don’t just move me because of the content — it’s the tone, the way people say things without saying them. Like the woman in Five Minutes of Freedom. She talked about a little bench she used to go to when she needed space. Just five minutes of not feeling trapped. She described it as the only place she could breathe — and that stopped me in my tracks.
It’s not about the drama, not the headlines. It’s that quiet heartbreak. The hidden stuff. The things people don’t usually say out loud.
That’s the part that gets me. Every time.
And it’s not always about pain either. Sometimes it’s the love that gets me. Or the humour. Or the resilience you find buried between the lines. The story about Biddy and John in Walking This Road Together? That one messed me up in the best way. John’s this warm, proud husband — still so full of love for his wife even as dementia is slowly changing who she is. But the way he talks about her — you can feel the decades they’ve shared in every word.
He says she used to run operations in a military camp overseas — and now she forgets things, sure, but she’s still herself. Still Biddy. And he talks about how they manage with ready meals and humour and stubbornness. And I’m sitting there, reading it, trying to hold it together, thinking: This is what love looks like when it gets tested.
There’s something so powerful about people trusting you with their truth. I never take that lightly. These aren’t interviews. They’re moments of real vulnerability. Real life, shared without polish. And I’m just the one holding the pen — or the camera — or the recorder. But make no mistake, I feel every word.
One of the most emotional parts for me is sending the finished story back to the person who shared it. Because sometimes they haven’t really seen themselves in that way before. One woman, after reading hers, said, “I didn’t think I had a story until I saw it written down.” She cried. And I did too. Because that’s the point of it all — not just to tell stories, but to show people their value.
Even the story titled Health, Home and Happiness — that one’s got a special place in me. It’s a quiet story. No dramatic moment. Just someone saying they finally feel safe, and that they’ve stopped chasing other people’s expectations. There’s a line in there about taking small, realistic steps — and honestly, that’s how I got clean. That’s how I rebuilt my life. It wasn’t grand gestures. It was small steps, held together by people who didn’t give up on me.
Sometimes I see people at exhibitions standing in front of these stories, just… staring. Not moving. Not saying much. And I know. I know they’ve found something that speaks to them. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s real. And that’s the bit that makes people feel seen.
I remember one time, I was editing a story in a café — this was early on in the project — and I just burst into tears over my laptop. Full-on ugly crying. No build-up, no gentle tear down the cheek. Just boom — emotions everywhere. The barista asked if I was okay. I said I was just reading something. She brought me tissues. Didn’t charge me for the tea either.
This work changes you. It keeps you open, keeps you human. If it ever stopped affecting me — if I ever stopped crying, or laughing, or feeling proud when someone tells their truth — I’d know it was time to stop. Because what would be the point, then?
These aren’t just case studies. These are people. People who’ve been through things. People who’ve held on when they had every reason to let go. People who’ve taken part in this project not because they want sympathy, but because they believe in the power of sharing something honest.
Every time I click on that “Stories” page on the site, it’s like opening a gallery of bravery. Every face, every sentence, every silence — it means something. And the emotional part? That’s not a side effect. That’s the heart of it.
So yeah — to answer the question properly:
Do I get emotional reading the stories back?
Yes. And I hope I always do.
Because it means I’m still listening.
It means I’m still learning.
And most of all, it means I still care.
