Writing as Relationship
What attachment theory can teach us about writing, safety, and the courage to be seen.
By Lisa Weinert
The other day, a writer I work with said, almost in surprise,
“I reread my piece and it wasn’t as bad as I expected.”
Her words made me smile — not because of modesty, but because of what was underneath them: a quiet astonishment at meeting her own voice without judgment.
She added, with a smile, “I actually liked a lot of it.”
That moment when a writer discovers she can approach her work with curiosity instead of criticism is the beginning of transformation. It’s where writing stops being a performance and becomes a relationship.
Writing Is Relational
Every act of writing is relational. The page is not neutral; it reflects our relationship with ourselves. Our tone, our pacing, and our tolerance for uncertainty all reveal the attachment patterns we bring to the creative process. And these patterns can either help or hinder our process.
One of the ways I like to think about writing is that it makes what’s invisible visible. Writing is literally the act of making our invisible inner world visible. How we greet our stories matters.
Here are some of the ways we write in relationship:
with the self we are right now,
with the self we’ve been,
with the reader (real or imagined),
and with the systems and cultures that have shaped what stories we believe are worth telling.
etc…
Over the past twenty years of working with hundreds of writers, I’ve found that most experience a deep undercurrent of anxiety around writing and sharing their work. It often takes the form of questions like, “Why bother?” or “Why would anyone care?”
In many ways, this seems to be part of the process — part of what makes a writer a writer. It’s one of the ways the specific and peculiar sensitivities of the writing mind reveal themselves. And, of course, it’s also simply part of being human.
These feelings are completely normal — and also not fixed. But they can make it difficult to take creative risks or to experience confidence and joy in sharing what we create. The truth is, how we feel when we write, and how we feel when we share, reveal how safe we feel to be seen. In essence, we need to feel safe in order to take big creative risks. This kind of risk-taking doesn’t come easily or naturally to many of us — for good reason — but the good news is, it can be taught.
Research shows that when we feel securely attached — grounded and connected — we can stretch into the unknown. We can stay with discomfort long enough to discover something new. When our sense of safety is shaky, our nervous system translates that into avoidance, perfectionism, or collapse.
British psychologist John Bowlby (1907–1990) called this sense of safety a ‘secure base’ — the kind of relationship that makes exploration possible. He wrote,
“Life is best organized as a series of daring ventures from a secure base”
In his Attachment theory, he suggests that the kind of bond we form with our earliest caregiver can shape the way we connect with others later in life. Those early experiences teach us what love feels like, what safety means, and how much of ourselves it’s safe to reveal.
Since this theory emerged, it has been widely accepted that attachment theory is adaptive and humans are resilient, meaning even if we didn’t receive consistent comfort and connection as a small child, we can develop secure attachments later in life.
Bowlby also believed that our innate drive toward connection supports psychological repair: He writes, “The human psyche, like human bones, is strongly inclined toward self-healing.”
I’ve seen time and time again that a nourishing writing practice in a supportive community can be a wonderful way to build a secure attachment style, and it begins with your relationship to your own writing on the page.
Attachment Theory on the Page
In writing, that secure base begins with how you meet yourself on the page.
Ask yourself: when you sit down to write, do you feel safe? Or do you brace for judgment?
The anxious writer hovers over every sentence, seeking reassurance.
The avoidant writer distances themselves from the work — afraid of feeling too much.
The disorganized writer swings between exhilaration and collapse.
The secure writer — or the one learning security — trusts that imperfection is part of the process.
Each time you return to your work with compassion rather than critique, you’re not only editing a sentence; you’re re-patterning your attachment. You’re learning that your voice is safe to emerge.
Why It Matters Who We Share With
Because writing is relational, it matters profoundly who witnesses our words.
If we share our work too soon, with someone who cannot hold it with care, we can retraumatize the very part of us that dared to speak. But when we share with attuned readers — people who meet our work with curiosity and presence — we build new internal models of safety.
This is how communal safety, like we create in our Listening Circles, mirrors early attachment repair: being met with attunement where there was once misattunement, being received rather than dismissed. Over time, these moments of resonance reshape our nervous systems and remind us that it is safe to be seen.
Writing in this way becomes an act of co-regulation. The experience of being seen without judgment reinforces the internal secure base we are building.
Reparenting the Writer Within
When you write, you are in conversation with the child part of you that once learned to hide, to please, or to perfect. Reparenting as a writer means becoming the adult who can now offer what that younger part needed: warmth, patience, permission. When you write, you can pretend like you are inviting a close friend or beloved pet with you. Speak to yourself in the same way you would to a friend or a beloved pet.
Try this practice:
Before you write, place a hand on your heart or your belly. Take a few breaths and say silently, I’m here with you. You’re safe to speak.
As you write, notice when the inner critic appears. Instead of silencing it, thank it for trying to protect you. Then gently remind it: We don’t need that right now. We’re just exploring.
After you write, read your words aloud as if they belong to someone you love — a friend, a child, even your past self. Let tenderness guide your tone.
Over time, this becomes your practice of reparenting: creating within yourself the secure base that Bowlby described — a place from which you can dare, play, and tell the truth. You might feel the warmth of your own hand as a reminder — this is the base you’ve built
Because the page can only meet you as gently as you meet yourself. And that’s where healing begins.
With care,
Lisa
Thank you for sharing :>