The Lie That’s Ruining Your Writing Life

I’m fired by an issue that burns in my bones.

I don’t usually get political on this Substack—plenty of others do that well—but this moment directly affects your writing life. So, we need to talk about it.

Last week, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. said:

“Autism destroys families, and more importantly, it destroys our greatest resource, which is our children… They’ll never pay taxes, they’ll never hold a job, they’ll never play baseball, they’ll never write a poem, they’ll never go out on a date. Many of them will never use a toilet unassisted.”

The last sentence refers to people with severe autism, or what he calls full-blown autism, but that’s not the point. These words aren’t just offensive—they damage how we value people and ourselves. And if you’re a writer, they’re ruining your creative life more than you realize.

Let me explain.

Why this is ruining your writing life.

I spent seven years working with autistic children, many of whom qualified for a self-contained classroom due to the severity of their symptoms. I loved, and still love, these kids and often wonder where they are or what they’re doing, though I know for sure that whatever it is, it’s meaningful.

Here’s my problem with what RFK Jr. said and why it’s harming your writing life.

When I first read this quote, I fell into the ableism trap Sarah Chauncey beautifully writes about. I thought of the poems they wrote, the jobs they now likely have, the taxes they’re likely paying, and all the ways they are good, productive citizens.

However, when we equate productivity with worth, we reinforce the capitalistic lie that equates value with our output.

This is the same lie that harms so many writers I work with.

Maintaining your motivation over the long haul is a major challenge writers face. Many come to me feeling both frustrated and baffled by their inability to align their desire with their schedule.

When we dig into the problem, they frequently share variations on the following themes:

Writing feels selfish.
Writing feels self-indulgent.
If I don’t make money from this, I’ve failed.

I get it. Who wants to see themselves as a failure?

Here’s the truth:

You matter. Your words matter. Your writing is already meaningful.

Who taught you your life wasn’t enough?

RFK Jr.’s words remind me of the many ways we’re taught that a life only has value if it fits into a narrow, able-bodied, productivity-driven mold.

But ask yourself this question:

Let’s say you write a bestseller. On your deathbed, will you think of your bank statement or the letter you received from a reader whose life you touched?

What do you think others will consider when they hear about your death?

Here’s Maya Angelou’s answer:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

When I was six, my cousin was born two months premature. She had an active case of Cytomegalovirus that caused severe disabilities, including profound deafness, legal blindness, and significant intellectual disability, among others.

Doctors said she wouldn’t last five days.

When she lived a week, they said she’d be dead within a year. On her first birthday, they said she’d die by five, and if she lived, she’d never walk, never talk, never hold a job, and never use the bathroom by herself. In other words, her life was deemed worthless.

My cousin turns forty-six later this year. She walks, communicates using sign language, and lives a meaningful life. And the love she gives is extraordinary.

Then there’s T, a student at one of the schools where I taught. T communicated solely with eye blinks, and through them, he taught an entire school about the power of presence, compassion, and acceptance.

If we measured his life by RFK Jr.’s metrics, it would be meaningless. If we choose Maya Angelou’s, it’s priceless.

So, what does this have to do with writing? Everything.

The lives of T and my cousin are poems, beautifully revealing the spirit within and the love and worth we offer one another.

What if you saw your life as a poem—or a series of poems brilliantly illustrating the nuances of grief, the magnificence of love, or the power of endurance and tenacity?

What might your strange, sometimes heartbreaking, and always sacred life become if you viewed it through this lens?

What might you allow yourself to do?
Better yet, what might you allow yourself to become?

Challenging false beliefs like this one is how we write our resilience, because when we stop believing the lies, the truth of who you really are emerges.

Here are a few writing prompts to reclaim your worth:

What are the patterns in the storms of your life?
What are the raindrops of your grief?
What is the pink pulse (or pick your color) of longing, love, or desire that beats inside you?
What is the metaphor of your heartache, the rhythm of your yearning, or the meter that holds all of it together?

Years ago, I used the writing process to deconstruct the lies I’d always told myself. As I did this, I didn’t just get my life back; I was reborn into something far, far better than I could’ve hoped for. The poetry of my existence sparked a flame that now burns brightly inside me.

That flame is the reason I write this Substack.

It’s also why I teach.

Because when we rewrite the unhelpful stories we’ve clung to and burn away the lies we’ve been told, we change ourselves, and as a result, we change the world.

And that, my friends, is why I always—always—write on.

Warmly,

Lisa

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