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Something that stood out to me was when Richardson (2001) said, “I write because I want to find something out. I write in order to learn something that I did not know before I wrote it” ( p.35). I connect to this idea of understanding and learning through writing on two levels, academically, and intrapersonally. Oftentimes when I am feeling big emotions that I do not fully understand or know how to communicate, I write. During this process I try to find out what I'm feeling, why, and maybe what I feel I can’t say out loud. In terms of academics, I often start writing my papers without fully knowing what I am talking about. I find I do my best work when I start writing before doing research, otherwise I don’t really understand what I am looking for in the research. After researching I then go back and edit my writing to incorporate new understandings. I find both of these learning experiences to be very empowering for me. I also found Jensen-Clayton’s (2018) discussion on titles (Mr, Mrs. Dr.) thought provoking. I never understood the divide and power that these titles perpetuated between and amongst men and women.( p.128). It is in these types of acknowledgements that we are able to expand our understanding of why writing matters. However, I'm still not sure how to approach this idea from a k-12 perspective. I look forward to reading your posts and gaining a better understanding.

Jensen-Clayton, C. (2018). Women writing to ourselves: Rescuing the girl child from androcentricity. In A.L. Black & S. Garvis (Eds.), Women Activating Agency in Academia (pp. 123–132). Routledge. PDF

Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33-38. PDF Richardson

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L’écriture est grandement importante pour les communautés marginalisées puisque ça leur permet de raconter, de s’exprimer ainsi que d’être lu par des individus hors de leur groupe. Cela leur permet de continuer d’exister et de se faire entendre que ce soit dans leur propre ville ou dans un pays lointain. Plusieurs auteurs venant de groupes minoritaires écrivent différemment pour protester, pour se manifester et pour contrer les normes sociales qui leur sont néfastes. Un très bon exemple est la professeure, l’écrivaine et l’éditrice Katherine McKittrick qui utilise les notes de bas de page pour raconter l’acquisition de ses connaissances. Elle soutient et démontre que les connaissances et les découvertes n’ont pas de propriétaire. Elle dénonce l’individualité et la propriété des idées, des connaissances. Selon elle, les idées se construisent en communauté à l’aide de chaque conversation, échange, apprentissage, activité, etc., que nous faisons. Elle rend compte de cela dans ces notes de bas de page (2021).

Ce type de théorie est pertinente pour l’éducation des étudiants de chaque niveau puisque cela dénonce et va à l’encontre de l’idée occidentale de la création de connaissances et la possession de celles-ci. Ça permet d’enseigner aux jeunes que la production de savoir est communautaire et qu’elle se fait mieux en collaboration. Cela leur permet d’explorer les avantages de collaborer surtout avec des groupes minoritaires tels que les autochtones dans le but de construire des connaissances qui nous avantagent tous, qui remettent en question nos institutions.

McKittrick, K. (2021). Footnotes (Books and Papers Scattered about the Floor). In Dear Science and Other Stories (pp. 14-34). New York, USA: Duke University Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781478012573-003

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Both articles this week spoke wonders to me. The mandatory article from Richardson (2001) hit home because personal writing is something that I have been doing for several years now. I started journaling during the pandemic. It became my personal escape to better understand and accept the ‘new’ reality at the time and helped me move forward. "Although I could not bring into speech what was happening in my head, I found that I could write about it […] Writing gave me a feeling of control over time and space, and a faith that I would recover. Writing was the method through which I constituted the world and reconstituted myself. Writing became my principal tool through which I learned about my self and the world. I wrote so I would have a life." (Richardson, 2001, p. 33). When you spend time with your own thoughts, you realize a lot about yourself. " Not being able to regularly communicate with others means that more time is spent in my own head." (Yoo, 2022, p.56-57). This isolated time helped me process the various emotions that I was feeling. I remember finding myself ‘locked in’ at home, working full time with mainly six directors of education in Northern Ontario and looking after my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter (who was potty training to boot). My days were bleak, and my endeavors were no longer monumental, but rather fruitless! My colleagues who were at the end of their careers and whom many did not have children could not empathize with my situation. I worked for roughly 2 hours during the day, since my focus was to make sure that my two-year-old had her needs met, while my husband was looking after two business and his workers. I ended up working my days from 7pm to midnight everyday. "The boundaries between motherhood and work life have always felt tenuous, but now they are on the brink of collapse. I had not thought it could be possible to supervise my children’s schooling each day while completing my own work." (Yoo, 2022, p.56). During these difficult times, I found myself writing to put into words the painful words that I could simply not express. I am forever thankful for writing!

Aside from my experiences, I believe that writing immensely matters in society! It’s a way to connect the ‘invisible’ dots and see the correlations that exist between social injustices caused by patriarchy, capitalism, religion, etc. In education, we lack integrating emotional intelligence. The latter is at the root of not only understanding, processing and controlling our own emotions, but also how to empathize with others. Emotional intelligence is needing in society, but notably in the classroom if we want to address critical issues. "Because writing-stories let us discover new things about ourselves and our world, we have the possibility of writing new plots; with new plots come new lives […] Writing about your life brings you to strange places; you might be uncomfortable about what you learn about yourself and others" (Richardson, 2001, p.37). It’s only by sitting down, making the connections, having the difficult uncomfortable discussions that we can come to grips with social supremacy and other injustices that persists in our society. This is where growth begins!

References:

Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33-38.

J. Yoo (2022). Disruption and silence: Making sense of troubled times through autoethnographic writing. In M. Heath et al. (Eds). Global Feminist Authoethnographies During Covid 19: Displacements and Disruptions, pp. 54-63.

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When I write, whether it’s a paper, report card comments or a text message, I find myself having so many thoughts that I’m trying to put forth that it becomes chaotic. I have very little ability to think and write simultaneously, as when I’m finishing a sentence, the thought I once had as the logical next sentence, has already fleeted. I can send myself in circles, no clear point to be made, just quasi-related rambling. Those who know me (or also have ADHD) are usually able to follow. After the readings this week, I am questioning this process, maybe this is how I can write differently.

Haraway states, “we have always been a loopy we of many surprising interlinked kinds.” (p. 567) These are my thoughts, surprisingly connected in one way or another, but never on first reading. The author continues to relate the interconnectedness of stories to coral reefs as “...holobionts—that is, symphonic or fugal assemblages of living and nonliving entities that are necessary to each other’s being.” (567) In terms of academic writing, I continuously try to erase the living entity that is my identity in the writing, leaving the nonliving, or the research, to speak for itself. As much as I can try, the research will never speak for itself, it will be tainted with the lens of the reader who arrives already with their own living entities. If no matter how hard I try to eliminate the tie to human experience it still appears, why try in the first place?

Whether it’s academic writing, journaling, a facebook post, or a k-12 student paper, there should be some sense of the author, their opinions, their experiences, the essence of who they are. Not simply because it makes it more interesting to feel the passion between author and subject, but because the story being told, whether it is the author's story or not, needs to be placed within their context. We all have the right to tell our own stories, but when someone else is telling it, the author must include themselves in the conversation as the messenger - as I’m confident in saying many of us have played the game of Telephone and know how that always turns out…

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Described by Jensen-Clayton (2018) as an exchange of rigour and mastery with a desire to be revered as all knowing, the masculine writing style is evident in both the highly structured format and academic writing. Within the military, the masculine writing style is evident in policy documents and briefing notes, which relies heavily on stated facts and documentation through reputable references. However, as Richardson (2001) noted, even when a structured format is necessary in the workplace context, people will continue to write about their lives as their humanity erupts through their discourse, topics explored, and choice of metaphors within their work. Feminist themes, perspectives, and opinions may be expressed within the rigid confines of the masculine writing style, but the format may limit deeper inquiries or the sharing of personal experiences or feelings.

While I am interested in exploring a more direct approach to integrating feminist writing styles into military and academic writing, I question whether the term “stories”, which appeared in many of this week’s readings, is the most appropriate language. I find the term reminds me of childhood fantasies, such as bedtime stories, and may project an air of disbelieving the author. Instead, I prefer the term “speaking truths,” which goes beyond recounting personal stories to critically examining their lived experiences through the lens of societal structures and power dynamics that perpetuate the described inequalities (Ramazanoglu & Holland, 2005). By “unashamedly drawing on embodied experiences” (Jensen-Clayton, 2018, p. 126), feminist writing gives a voice to underrepresented perspectives that can be naturally expressed outside formal writing structures.

References

Jensen-Clayton, C. (2018). Women writing to ourselves: Rescuing the girl child from androcentricity. In A.L. Black & S. Garvis (Eds.), Women Activating Agency in Academia (pp. 123–132). Routledge.

Ramazanoglu, C., & Holland, J. (2005). Still telling it like it is?: Problems of feminist truth claims. In Transformations (pp. 207-220). Routledge.

Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33-38. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518390010007647

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Writing has always been more than just a skill—it's a way of expressing identity, making sense of experience, and resisting silence. What really struck me this week is how traditional academic writing tends to favor distance, objectivity, and structure—all of which can exclude the messy, emotional, and deeply human parts of our lives. Feminist scholars like Laurel Richardson and Hélène Cixous challenge us to bring our whole selves into our writing. That means writing from the body, from memory, from emotion.

This week’s topic actually reminded me of a course I took during my bachelor’s degree that also focused on writing differently. I got to really explore my creativity in that class—which, as an Arts student, was my number one goal. It helped me step outside the traditional academic writing headspace that university (and school in general) tends to push us into.

For marginalized voices, especially women, racialized people, and queer communities, writing differently isn't just a creative choice—it’s a political act. It creates space for stories that don’t fit the usual molds.

What writing differently opens up is possibility: for healing, for connection, for truth-telling. It also challenges readers to sit with discomfort or ambiguity. But maybe that’s where the most powerful learning happens.

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Joanne Yoo’s Disruption and Silence shows how writing, especially feminist autoethnography, becomes a powerful tool for navigating crisis and reclaiming voice. During the pandemic, Yoo’s personal reflections reveal how traditional academic writing felt hollow, while writing differently, emotionally, creatively, and reflexively, offered healing and meaning. This kind of writing matters deeply for marginalized communities because it centers lived experience and allows space for vulnerability and truth. Yoo compares this to jazz: improvisational, relational, and open to possibility. Writing differently challenges rigid academic norms and creates space for affect, identity, and dialogue. For education, this means reimagining how we teach writing, not as impersonal argumentation but as a way of knowing, being, and connecting. Feminist writing theories encourage us to support students in using their own voices, especially those whose stories are often silenced. Writing, in this way, becomes a means of transformation for both writer and reader.

J. Yoo (2022). Disruption and silence: Making sense of troubled times through autoethnographic writing. In M. Heath et al. (Eds). Global Feminist Authoethnographies During Covid 19: Displacements and Disruptions, pp. 54-63

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Richardson’s reflection that “writing is an integral part of my life as a feminist scholar…its effects are surprisingly complex, rich, and rhizomatic, having unexpected consequences for the writer and the reader” (p. 34) captures the transformative potential of writing stories as both personal and political acts. What stands out to me is how she frames writing not just as a method of communication, but as a feminist practice that disrupts traditional academic norms. By privileging the personal, she challenges the impersonal, linear, and “unbiased” forms of academic writing, opening space for marginalized voices to be heard and validated. In my work as a mental health nurse, I see how dominant cultural narratives about body image and worth can shape, and often limit, patients’ sense of self.

For communities “at risk” of marginalization, writing differently—whether through journaling, storytelling, or poetry—can be profoundly empowering. In the case of patients, writing differently can empower them to find and “thicken” alternative narratives about themselves—ones not defined by their mental illness, but by resilience, agency, and hope. This process is not just therapeutic; it is political, challenging societal norms, stereotypes, and stigmas surrounding mental illness. Bringing these feminist and narrative approaches into clinical and educational settings can be transformative; it invites patients and students alike to see their stories as valid and powerful, promoting a sense of connection and agency that is often missing in traditional, impersonal forms of academic or therapeutic writing. Ultimately, writing stories becomes a tool for healing, resistance, and change.

Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33-38.

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What stood out most to me across both readings was the deep power of writing as care—especially for those of us who come from marginalized communities. In Global feminist autoethnographies during COVID-19, I was struck by how the authors used writing not just to reflect on their struggles as women and caregivers in academia, but also to hold space for each other. They weren’t just documenting—they were actively supporting and witnessing one another through their words. That really stayed with me.

In Getting Personal, Richardson's idea of "writing-stories" really challenges the way we usually think about academic work. She talks about writing that blends storytelling, reflection, and theory as a legitimate and necessary form of scholarship. That resonates deeply with me as someone who doesn’t always see myself reflected in traditional academic writing. The idea that writing can be emotional, personal, and still rigorous is both empowering and disruptive—in the best way.

For people from communities that have been historically silenced or “othered” in academia, writing differently opens up the possibility of being heard on our own terms. It challenges the assumption that objectivity means detachment or erasure of the self. And I think that’s crucial—not just in postsecondary spaces, but also in K–12 classrooms. If we teach kids from a young age that their stories matter, that their emotions and experiences are valid sources of knowledge, we’re making space for a more inclusive future in education.

These feminist writing theories remind me that it’s not just about what we write, but how and why we write—and who gets to be the storyteller. That shift in power is everything.

References:

Richardson, L. (2001). Getting personal: Writing-stories. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14(1), 33–38. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518390010007647

Taylor, C. A., Ulmer, J. B., Desai, S. R., Cervantes, A., & Vetter, A. (2022). Global feminist autoethnographies during COVID-19: An ethics of care in Canada, India, and the United States. Qualitative Inquiry, 28(2), 190–199. https://doi.org/10.1177/10778004211050105