Bro, You Aren't Oprah. No One Cares.
“Who wants to read all about your life, Becca? You aren't famous. Your story isn't that unique. So what—you're white, privileged, and had cancer. Big whoop.”
That's what the voice in my head keeps saying while I'm knee-deep in Chapter 3 enrichment.
Who wants to read all about your life, Becca? You aren't famous. Your story isn't that unique. So what—you're white, privileged, and had cancer. Big whoop.
The brain plays fun games when you're trying to write a memoir, doesn't it?
This week I had what I'm calling my "anti-Oprah moment." You know how Oprah has those big revelations where everything clicks and she's like "THIS IS WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE"?
Yeah, mine was the opposite.
Mine was: Why the fuck does anyone care about this?
I'm in the enrichment phase of editing—the part where I go back through completed chapters and answer 20+ questions to add sensory details and emotional depth. Questions like "what did the grass feel like when you collapsed?" and "describe your dad's face in the hospital room."
It's methodical torture.
And somewhere between answering "what did 9am tequila taste like?" and "what were you wearing when you got the call?" my brain decided to remind me that I'm not special.
You're not Oprah. You're not Glennon Doyle. You're not Elizabeth Gilbert.
You're just some lady with tattoos who used to sell medical devices and now writes LinkedIn posts.
Who. Fucking. Cares.
My face has been playing tug of war lately—smile and don't show the feels versus it's okay to be real, babe. The level of tired I'm carrying is showing big time. I'm on client calls trying to be "on" while internally reliving the worst weeks of my life for the sake of adding texture to a chapter.
It's exhausting.
And the privilege guilt doesn't help. Like yeah, I had cancer. Yeah, both my parents died. But I'm also white, educated, had health insurance, and a support system. There are people with way harder stories than mine.
So what makes mine worth reading?
Here's what I keep coming back to:
It's not about being Oprah.
It's about the person who reads your words and goes "oh shit, me too."
When someone sees themselves in your story—even if the details are different—it gives them permission. Permission to feel their own grief. Permission to be messy. Permission to not have it all figured out.
That's why I'm doing the enrichment phase even though I need to light a fire under my ass and write faster so people can actually read this book sometime this century.
Because the details matter.
Not because my story is special or unique or Oprah-worthy.
But because when you write the truth—the real, ugly, sensory truth—other people recognize their own truth in it.
So yeah, I'm not Oprah.
But maybe that's the point.
Current Status:
19/19 chapters complete
10,244 words across first 3 enriched chapters
Chapter 3 enrichment: Complete (all 13 questions answered)
Reality check: Need to speed up to 3 chapters/week to finish by end of February
Self-doubt status: Present but not winning
The voice that says "no one cares" is loud this week.
But I'm writing anyway.
Still becoming.
