The Podcast to Bring us Out of the Dark: Stories of Hope

I always knew I would tell my story. I just didn’t know storytelling would become my passion. I didn’t realize the simple act of sharing could impact individual’s lives in profound ways, and now it’s my mission to spread the message of healing, connection, and hope.

I knew the hardships I endured: youth homelessness, a mother’s cancer, a mother’s death, an addicted father, an addicted daughter, were not for nothing. There was a reason I went through those experiences. But I didn’t always carry that faith. In fact, there were times I felt a complete sense of hopelessness. Looking back, it wasn’t the fall into chaos that made me feel hopeless. It was the lonely realization there was no one to see me fall, no one to stop it, or even acknowledge it. I didn’t have emotional support. Most importantly, I didn’t feel understood. You see I, Emily Rose, had been dealt a bad hand. And isn't it true that before the myriad of rainbows and butterflies, there must be a 'hero's journey' in which the protagonist endures some hardships, perhaps a fight scene or two? It's just math.

My character arc is finding my way back to human connection. It’s my passion, and it’s something I need to share with the world. I’ve seen the life-changing effect of storytelling firsthand. Initially as the recipient, finally as the storyteller. Before I describe my business idea, I need readers to understand the reason behind my passion. So first, let’s talk about my story.

MY STORY OF HOPE

I had a dreamy childhood, but the cotton candy lip gloss filled life did not prepare me for what was soon to come. My dad was incredibly gifted in his work and afforded our family the opportunity to live an upper-class life. But one afternoon, my dad got in a car accident. He was prescribed OxyContin for an injury informed doctors would have prescribed Tylenol-3. When his injury healed, his dependency to opiates did not. A year later, he embraced the needle.

After several rehab stunts, my parents divorced. My mom, now a single parent, moved me from our life in Chicago, Illinois back to her hometown of Toronto Ontario, Canada. My mom had no job and little savings, so we went from a big home (big enough we could go a day without occupying the same room) to living in a one-bedroom apartment. It would have been a comfortable adjustment had we not been subjected to hear each other’s soft cries at night. Three months after the move, my mom was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. She shared the news with me on November 11 (Canadian Remembrance Day), and now that day will always have a different meaning as to what I ‘remember’.

Her battle left her so weak that her ribs and shoulder bones were visible with every step. The light in her eyes was fading. You could feel the progression of trauma infecting every inch of our home. Alcohol stench stung my nose upon entry home from school. In a matter of weeks, every surface of the entire apartment was covered in beer bottles and wine coolers, and a different man would be on our couch. When I came home from school one afternoon to find her alone, hitting herself, screaming incoherently, I knew I couldn’t pretend she was still the same person. She needed to be cared for like she always cared for me. I desperately called my grandparents for help.

We moved again. This time, to be with her parents in Victoria, British Columbia. Until this move, my coping mechanism had always been school. When things at home were wine soaked and men were leering close by, I buried myself in books. I joined every club at school, even the robotics program; if I couldn’t control the humans in my world at least I could program a robot. But in Victoria, I found these tactics weren’t working. No one joined clubs. Instead of fighting for the teacher to call your name, students rolled their eyes when you raised your hand. I begged the principle to start a robotics club and was told if I could get 10 student signatures, he would fund it. I only got 3.

To fit in I felt I needed to be a chameleon, so I assimilated to what was cool: partying. At the age of 14, I began my career doing drugs and drinking, and my mom began a career selling the pain medication she was prescribed. An excess of strange men would appear in my house and seem to forget why they were there once they saw me. I had to grow thick skin.

I started to get massive headaches. Every night. Tylenol, Advil, nothing worked. After weeks of this, my mom sat next to me on the couch. “I have something that will help. It’s like Tylenol without the Acetaminophen”, she explained.

I took it.

I loved it.

I later discovered the truth: it was Oxycontin.

I fell hard and fast into addiction. No one noticed. My intelligence carried me despite missing classes. Even my friends started to change. I was adopted into a group like me, the lost kids. It was companionship, but it wasn’t true connection. What tied us together was artificial. No one really cared for each other, we only cared we had someone to use drugs with.

I soon left my mom’s home after I escaped a sexual assault attempt, and friend’s couches became my bed. When ‘friends’ stopped having me, the street became my bed. No one noticed me. No one cared.

At school, I eavesdropped a student complaining to a friend that their cat had gone to the vet, as if it were the worst pain in the world. I remember fighting the urge to scoff, feeling like no one could possibly understand the weight I was carrying. But deep down, it wasn’t because my pain was worse than theirs. Pain is relative. It was that they had someone to tell their pain to, and I had no one. If I had reached out to that student and said, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this” maybe they would have asked me in return how I’m feeling. Maybe I would have felt connection sooner.

All roads lead somewhere. Yet at the time, all it felt like was despair. Despair feels like the toothache of summer, when it's too humid to think and all you hear are warnings on the news about climate change and political problems and heat waves and oh, it all feels so hopeless. Despair is starting on a path in the desert and getting lost and there's not even a cactus in sight to score water from. But looking back, I felt despair not because of my hardships; it was because I was experiencing them alone. No one was in the desert with me. And that was the lightbulb that exploded in beautiful clarity in my mind. I needed connection.

The reintroduction to connection came in the form of an outreach worker. I learned that she had a story like mine. Until then, I thought no one could ever relate to me. And the best part? Her story had a happy ending. All of the sudden, it felt like all my ailments were cured by the hope that blossomed from shared understanding. After that chance encounter, I found an apartment, I got through high school despite my mom passing away, and I got clean. While it was challenging, I never felt despair again because I knew someone was out there who was like me.

Let’s flash forward again, 6 years this time. Today I am 22 years old and have worked in the homelessness sector for 4 years. I’ve informed provincial policy. I’m in university. I’m healthy and happy. And most importantly, I tell my story. I wear it on my sleeve, ready to share with those who may need hope. I’ve shared my story at national youth homelessness conferences and have received countless positive feedback describing how my story has changed their lives in some way, big or small. I also share my story with professionals in the sector who have never experienced homelessness. It colors their lens and helps them relate to humans from all walks of life. It reduces stigma and replaces it with compassion. Storytelling equals connection. And connection defeats the ‘us and them’ mentality that’s so pervasive in our society. No matter what the audience has experienced, there’s always an aspect of my story someone can relate to.

The secondary benefit of storytelling is for the speakers themselves. In addition to the audience’s benefit, telling your story can be incredibly healing. I’ve supported others with lived experience of homelessness to join me at these speaking engagements to spread their messages, too.

On both a local and sector-wide scale, I’ve proved the success of my idea. Though unless you work in the homelessness sector in British Columbia, you’ve probably never witnessed us. That’s what I want to change.

MY PROPOSAL

My passion is storytelling.

My goal is to spread the message of connection and hope with as many people as possible.

My proposal? To create a weekly (paid membership-based) podcast consisting of people with lived experience of addiction, mental health challenges, homelessness, family breakdown, and other hardships to spread messages of hope, foster a sense of connection and relatability, and reduce stigma.

I want to do this on a wider scale than I’ve previously accomplished. This is why I want to create a membership-based podcast, so these stories of healing and overcoming barriers can be shared with people worldwide. It can reach people at home during the pandemic, it can reach those who are too nervous to join a support group. This podcast can meet people where they are at.

I want to target this podcast to all persons, because the purpose has benefit to listeners regardless of personal circumstance: both those experiencing hardships described in the podcast and those who may not have similar experiences. Those who have never experienced similar hardships can still benefit from receiving inspiration and hope, in addition to questioning their own inherent bias, and providing a healthy feel-good moment. Knowing despite the odds, somewhere in British Columbia ‘James’ has followed his dreams means you can too, listener.

At the end of the podcast, I want to pose questions to the audience to think about. In my training in the homelessness sector, I learned a lot about the practice of Coaching and the principles of it. A tactic that has helped me overcome moments in time where I’ve felt inertia is the ‘Exception Question’. What if you followed your dreams? What if you started your own business? Reached out for support? Posing ‘What if’ questions can stop the ‘I can’t’ thoughts that we know too well. In addition, the ‘Miracle Question’ is another way to support audience members. ‘If you reached your dreams, what would it take to get there? It might feel impossible right now, but let’s pretend for a second you got there (pause). Let’s work backwards. What would have had to happen just before you reached your goal? And before that?’ Before you know it, you’re here in this moment with a plan laid before you. My podcast would include tools I’ve learned from Coaching Practice and Motivational Interviewing, which include asking open-ending questions to support listeners to consider their goals. I would include pauses between my questions for the listeners to have time to consider. Those who don’t want to reach out for help can still have a ‘thinking partner’ of sorts, and can still be asked questions to support their growth.

The format of the podcast will begin with an ‘Opening Consideration’. The Opening Consideration could be a thought, a quote, or question that supports the listener to think open-mindedly and will set the tone for the episode. Next, a guest storyteller will appear in the episode to share their message of hope. The final portion of the episode will use the ‘Coaching framework’ to ask listeners questions or pose a prompt, with the goal of helping listeners feel confident tackling their own hardships, hopes and dreams. We will invite listeners to send in their answers or response to the prompts, so each episode will briefly revisit the last episode’s prompt to feature a few listener answers. Each episode will run for 30-40 minutes, depending on the length of the storyteller’s tale and how many listener responses we want to feature.

I am determined to see my idea to fruition. I have witnessed firsthand the impact storytelling can have, and I know my podcast will fill a gap most of us have experienced: a lack of shared connection, hope and relatability, no matter where you are. This is a fresh, new idea that will affect people in immeasurable ways. This podcast will undoubtedly become a reality, but the support of Memberful can make this podcast the best it can be.

Through my extensive research, I cannot find any podcasts that mirror this idea. This podcast would be the first of its kind, and my hope is for it to start a movement that generates more compassion and empathy for our fellow humans. I hope the movement will help listeners identify that shared connection can lead to inspiration and most importantly, hope. I think hope is one of the most beautiful yet underused words in the English language. In this political and environmental climate we are faced with, all of us could use a little hope.