I recently joined a writing group that meets at a local church — something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. It’s become one of my favourite outings now, this gathering of minds and hearts, of stories and pens. There’s something grounding about sitting in a quiet room with others who feel compelled to write. The kind of people who carry notebooks with them, who notice the way light falls on an old bench or how silence swells in a pause.

Each session leaves me with a little something — a phrase, a new perspective, a challenge to chew on. But last time, one sentence stopped me in my tracks and has echoed ever since. It was said by a writer I deeply admire — both for his literary accomplishments and the quiet strength of his character. He’s written many books, and I hold a deep respect for how he walks in the world.

He said, “As a writer, your woundedness is your greatest asset.”

At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I’ve carried many wounds in my life. Divorce. Cancer. Brain tumours, just to name a few. Life’s cruel surprises have marked me.

I’ve never believed in presenting my life as glossy or perfect. That kind of polished image just doesn’t speak to me. But at the same time, I don’t want to write only about the heavy things either. I don’t want pain to be the only story I tell.

That’s why my friend’s words at the writing group stopped me in my tracks:
“As a writer your woundedness is your greatest asset.”

I’ve been sitting with that sentence ever since.

Woundedness? As an asset? As something of value — maybe even a gift? That idea felt strange at first. I’ve always seen my wounds as things I’ve had to overcome, not something I’d ever lean into. So why did his words stay with me?

Is my problem a cultural confusion? We live in a world where we’re constantly shown curated, “Instagram-worthy” lives — soft filters, big smiles, perfectly staged moments. Struggles get smoothed over. We’re praised for being strong, yet quietly expected to hide the very scars that made us so.

But writing, real writing, doesn’t flourish in perfection. It lives in the cracks. The Japanese art of kintsugi comes to mind — the repair of broken pottery with gold. It doesn’t try to hide the damage; it highlights it. And in doing so, it makes something even more beautiful than before.

Henri Nouwen once wrote, “When our wounds cease to be a source of shame and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.” Maybe that’s what my fellow writer was getting at. That our pain, when transformed by God, becomes not just something we write about, but something we write from.

When I think about it, I’ve always believed that my writing voice is like my fingerprint — uniquely mine. It is shaped not only by who I am but by what I notice. And I tend to notice what others often walk past: a child’s lost shoe, the lonely teacup, the way an old man waits before crossing a quiet road. These observations aren’t random. They’re tethered to the depth of my own experience — to the quiet places I’ve been forced to visit in myself.

As writers, we aren’t just recorders of events. We’re interpreters of emotion. And every painful moment we’ve lived through has refined our perception. Grief has made me more tender. Illness has sharpened my gratitude. Heartbreak has softened my judgments.

Still, there’s a tension. I’m not interested in showcasing my suffering for effect. I shy away from turning pain into spectacle. And I don’t believe that writing must always be heavy to be true. There is value in joy. In whimsy. In beauty. Reflecting on happy times doesn’t make us superficial — it makes us whole.

What matters, I think, is authenticity. When I read others’ writing, I’m not drawn to the glossy perfection, but to the truth that hums underneath — the lived-in words, the tremble of a real voice. I want to feel the person behind the page. Their questions. Their awe. Their humanity.

I’m beginning to realise that perhaps our woundedness is not just about the pain we’ve endured, but about how God uses it to deepen our well. It’s through these experiences that He stretches our hearts, making them more spacious, more tender, more able to hold the stories of others with grace and compassion. Our wounds make us more receptive to God’s presence — often in ways we might have missed if life had only ever been easy.

Maybe that’s the mystery — our wounds don’t simply make us stronger; they make us more human, and more attuned to the quiet voice of God. They tune our ears to what really matters. Not because we dramatise our suffering, but because we’ve encountered God in the depths of it.

So yes, perhaps my woundedness is my greatest asset as a writer — not because I write from a place of brokenness alone, but because in those broken places, God has met me. And through those cracks, His light has found a way in — and maybe, just maybe, it can shine out again.

As I said earlier, our pain, when transformed, becomes not just something we write about, but something we write from. It becomes part of the ink itself. And perhaps that’s what shapes my writing fingerprint — utterly unique, formed by both sorrow and joy. Even the happy moments I write about carry the weight of what I’ve lived through. They shine brighter because of the shadows behind them.

So to my wise friend at writing group — thank you. You may not know it, but your quiet sentence sparked something deep within me. A silent thank you rises in my heart — for making me pause, ponder, and begin to see that maybe, just maybe, the story God is writing through me was never meant to be glossy… just real.