For a long time, I used government cheese as a litmus test.
During the Reagan years, the area where I grew up imploded. Factories fled, shops shuttered, and families, like mine, already living on the edge, fell off financial cliffs.
When the A&P plant closed in 1982, my grandfather lost his job and pension. I stood on the porch as the car he couldn’t afford to fix was towed away. My father’s factory went out of business in 1985. By that point, the unemployment rate in Elmira had soared to 9.3%, though it was likely higher due to people like my grandfather, who were both jobless and out of unemployment benefits. Unable to afford housing and child support, he couch-surfed for the next two years.
When my father landed a part-time janitor position at an alternative school, his boss said, “There were eighty-one applicants for your job. You’re lucky to have one.”
As townspeople went broke, government subsidies trickled in, including powdered milk, butter, peanut butter, and my favorite, government cheese. It didn’t matter to me if you loved or hated it, if you knew its taste, you understood my experience.
But an authentic story isn’t just about what’s on the surface; it’s about peeling back the layers to find meaning. At first glance, government cheese was a badge of courage, a marker of my tribe.
Yet while traveling to New York last weekend, after my father suffered yet another health crisis, I started breaking this story down.
My grandmother frequently said, “If we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all.” We were a family who couldn’t get ahead, and if you did, you were likely selfish, unscrupulous, or narcissistic. To belong in my family meant not being too much—not too big, not too successful, not too outside the lines they’d drawn around you.
Growing up, I was told I was too much so many times that old lie stamped itself on my bones.
While in New York, my body ached with the deep sadness of always feeling like I was the kid standing outside the house, peering through the window at those who belonged. On Saturday morning, I put my hand on my heart and asked my inner child what she wanted. The answer was immediate:
I want to be chosen.
For years, I tried to crunch myself into a ball small enough to fit their mold, hoping they’d see me as good enough. But I kept spilling over because that’s not what I’m meant for.
I am too much for my family—but in a good way. I am too filled with energy not to chase my curiosities. I hold too much love to stay stuck in old patterns. I am too powerful to be bound by a story that says we will never be enough.
They are too—even if they can’t see it.
Hell, so are you.
And this is both wonderful and heartbreaking. To claim all that I am means letting go of the need to belong to that narrative so I can belong to myself.
It’s a complicated journey, yet uncovering truths like this is the work of writing an authentic story and living an authentic life.
My ability to mine these truths allows me to accept the invitation Amy Robeson shared during her interview for the Writing Your Resilience podcast: take your stories to the places they’ve yet to go.
Sometimes doing so requires me to let go of old litmus tests, so I can look for our commonalities—even if that means you’ve never heard of, nor tasted, the food that once defined me.
If you’d like to learn more about how to do this, join me tomorrow, Thursday, March 13, 2025, for Writing About Trauma Without Retraumatizing Yourself.
For just $20, you’ll learn the tricks I’ve used to write sustainably about the tough stuff, deconstruct old narratives, and craft powerful stories—no matter the genre. We need these skills more than ever.
Use them to claim your full, unadulterated glory and build a sustainable, resilient writing practice that changes your life, and as a result, everyone around you.
Next week, we’ll explore how to use the hero and heroine’s journey to understand more about who you are.
Until then, may the stories you deconstruct heal your heart so you can always, always write on.
Warmly,
Lisa
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