My Short Story on Storied-Stuff.com

Grace, Glue, and the Quiet Power of Starting Again

I submitted a short story to www.Storied-Stuff.com, and it was published last week, on April 30th.

Here it is — all 486 words. I hope you enjoy it — and that you consider submitting your own short story to the site!

Photo by Christine Wolf

Long ago—before my divorce, before my sister’s sudden death, before the global pandemic—my therapist handed me a tiny figurine of a wishing well.

At first, I assumed she’d ask what I wished for, and believe me, I had answers ready: A life without debilitating anxiety; a way through my latest round of depression; more self-confidence; and a stronger voice.

Instead, she told me something that stopped me cold: “You can’t draw water for others if your own well is dry.”

I blinked, confused.

Growing up, I’d learned that selflessness was the most honorable way to live. Put others first. Keep giving. Yet, here was a licensed professional handing me a children’s trinket, gently nudging me to tend to myself.

She explained she often used items like this in sessions with children—especially those without the language to express their feelings. I wondered what the wishing well might have represented for them? Fear? Danger? Magic?

For me, the well became a silent companion—a reminder to slow down, check in with myself, and breathe.

Over time, it came to mean even more: the well reminded me to move my body, eat well, drink water, set loving boundaries. It reminded me to stop saying yes to every request. To sometimes put aside client work and focus on my own writing. The well helped me reconnect with the parts of myself that were often overlooked—the ones longing to be nourished.

There were moments, especially during the overwhelm of my divorce and the raw aftermath of my sister’s death, when I’d glance at the well and feel steadied by its quiet message: Stay grounded. Protect your energy. Fill yourself up with kind and gentle thoughts.

During the pandemic—when everything felt terrifying and out of control—I remember staring at the well, then choosing to sit down and do a puzzle instead of spiraling into doom-scrolling. That one small choice reminded me I could still anchor myself, that I could still choose care over chaos.

Earlier this morning, in a rush to clear my desk, I accidentally knocked the well to the floor, and it snapped in two. At first, I was devastated. This tiny object had sat beside me for years. What did it mean that it was broken? Had I failed to protect it—or to protect myself?

I picked up the two pieces and held them in my hand. Then, I smiled and thought:

I’ve been broken before. I’ve fallen apart. And I’ve glued myself back together using a mixture of grace and self-compassion.

I knew this wasn’t the end of the well’s story—it was just a new chapter.

Now, with the glue still drying, it’s back on my desk, still an easy little piece to overlook—so small, no taller than my pinky—yet it holds so much.

Sometimes, the tiniest tokens carry the deepest truths:
We don’t have to be unbroken to be whole. We just have to keep filling the well.

Editor’s note: You can now order the first paperback collection of Storied Stuff essays and pix. All proceeds go to not-for-profits assisting those impacted by the LA wildfires.
Link: https://tinyurl.com/2t45wahb

Christine Wolf is a memoir coach, developmental editor, and writing instructor who helps others turn personal truth into powerful narrative. Visit her website at ChristineWolf.com.