I help other people tell stories for a living.

Memoir, personal essay, bios — you name it, I’ve probably edited it.  

But I rarely considered the stories of my own life. My own life was just clumps of events, thoughts, compulsions, and relationships filed away randomly in my memory bank.

All of that changed when I discovered the subtly subversive subculture of The Moth.

The Moth is an “acclaimed not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. Since its launch in 1997, the Moth has presented thousands of stories, told live and without notes, to standing-room-only crowds worldwide.”

My first live Moth experience was in a small chapel on the island of Martha’s Vineyard back in 2015. I had no idea what to expect when I went in. But I came out astonished and changed.

That evening, I heard stories from six decidedly different people, from the “fame-ish” former children’s TV star struggling with his true identity to the 80-year-old murder-mystery author rekindling an old flame.

Each story was limited to 10 minutes, but the clock was the farthest thing from my mind. Time and space fell away and nothing existed but me and the storyteller. I opened my eyes and ears. I didn’t sneeze or scratch for fear of missing something.

Suddenly I felt deeply connected to these people that I had “nothing” in common with. The assumption of difference disappeared. The illusion of separation evaporated. Then we were all just a bunch of people in a room with stories to hear and stories to tell. The details of our stories may be unique, but the themes are universal.

The next day I signed up for a week-long Moth workshop that was offered as part of the roving Moth event. Once again, I didn’t know what to expect, I just felt an overwhelming compulsion to participate.

There were eight writers in the group from various literary disciplines and persuasions. Over the course of the week, it became apparent that we were all feeling the same way: freaked out to high-heaven, but determined to push our envelopes and mine our internal story-laden caverns.

I was under the impression that we’d have an opportunity to present our stories at the end of the week, not an obligation. I assumed my story wouldn’t be worth telling. But as time passed I realized that I owed the telling to myself, to the others in the group, and to whoever might be listening.

It was the last day of the workshop. We each took our turn at the microphone. On a stage with nice lighting. Big breath and began our tales. Tales of first communions and unrequited love. Childhood shame and family drama. Excruciating loss and staggering growth. Stories of realization, integration and transformation. Pretty big stuff for a little five-minute story.

Since then, I’ve tried to listen to one Moth story every day. It’s like a daily prescription for perspective and hope. And a handy reminder of our shared humanity.

Catch The Moth Story Hour on Public Radio, download the podcasts, or find live events in your area. You might even surprise yourself by submitting your own story for consideration.