The Story Behind My Book - Hope Is A Gentle Flicker

Sienna Reef
Mar 25
5 min read

Updated: Mar 26

What it took to tell this story.

I’m only weeks away from publication day, and I find myself looking back. Looking back at this crazy, hopeful, self-destroying, brave account that has been writing this book.

Soon I will publish it. I will give it to the world, forever in the form it has come to be — with no room for changes. So before I let it go, I want to reflect on what the journey has been.

It is, of course, born from pain, grief and loss.

In my life, when I felt adrift and lost, I’ve always turned to a blank page. Putting my thoughts and feelings down on paper has always been, to me, a way of recycle myself and heal from what was hurting me.

When we lost my stepdaughters, the pain was unbearable.

I wouldn’t say it came all at once. I would say that for many months we lived in some sort of denial. But slowly, gradually, it came knocking at the door. And when I let it in, it was like a hurricane. Impossible to stop.

One day I thought: There must be a way of still talking to them even though we aren’t allowed to speak to them.

That’s when I bought the first diary. And I began writing to them… rewinding all the way to the start… detailing everything. It was like leaving proof of a truth that everyone was trying to erase.

All the diaries I wrote to Adele and Nina

I had no idea then that this would turn into an actual book.

I had no idea even when I bought the second diary, and the third. Again, it was an impulse. A little voice whispered: Maybe you could help others with your story.

I don’t remember the moment I opened my laptop and a blank Word document. Honestly, I don’t remember that moment, that day. I remember vaguely that the thought of turning this into something bigger took form in my mind, but I don’t recall putting it into practice.

And yet, I would spend the next three years writing on that Word document. Shy, insecure, but determined to give meaning to the sorrow we lived.

I think parental alienation can feel like a surreal experience. Grasping the true horror of it, even when going through it, can be hard. Overwhelming. The pages I was writing reminded me that it was real. That it was unfair, and that it needed to be spoken about.

They say that when something is too painful to endure, the brain plays a little trick and makes us forget just how painful it was — think of a woman giving birth, for example.

Now, looking back, I think it applies to parental alienation, too.

When you come out of it, or when things slightly improve, your brain forgets how heart-wrenching this was. I only fully remember when I re-read my own words.

These pages hold the truth that my mind sometimes tries to soften. They hold the voices of children I couldn’t reach. They hold the version of me who kept writing, even when I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.

A reminder for when you doubt your story.

“Hope Is A Gentle Flicker” took so long to write because I was reliving our experiences over and over again.

My husband got worried at some point. He asked me if this was a good idea — if this whole project wasn’t making me sick rather than helping. And yes, he was right; there was a point where it made me ill. It made me worse.

But isn’t it true that before things get better, they get worse? Before we can heal, we need to let go of a part of ourselves that doesn’t serve our purpose anymore. We need to outgrow ourselves. And this is extremely painful.

It also took this long because I had promised myself something: once I would write the last word, I would close this chapter. The book, yes, but also the chapter of my life that this book holds. Once it would be finished, I would close it and close Adele and Nina in it, and I wouldn’t reopen it again for a long, long time. I always thought that writing this book was like a slow extraction. Every page was me trying to pull this pain out of myself. I used to dream about the day I could finally push it out of my system for good. I couldn’t wait, and yet I was avoiding it. I guess I procrastinated saying goodbye to them.

There were parts of the book that would destroy me while editing. I only know this when reflecting back. Some chapters would always insinuate inside me, and while I would stand there saying, I’m perfectly fine, they would destroy me inside. It would take days, sometimes weeks, to recover.

Editing the book was probably harder than writing it. Self-reflecting so deeply about our situations — they would leave me hollowed.

It was hard. I had to take long breaks. Come back to it like a stranger looking in. Detach… then start all over again.

And yet, somehow, I kept going.

And now, here I am. The book is no longer just mine.

For years, these pages lived inside my laptop, inside my head. They were my secret conversations with Adele and Nina. My proof that they existed, that they once loved us, that they mattered and we mattered to them, that no amount of silence could erase what we lived.

Now, in just a few weeks, those pages will belong to you.

I won’t pretend I’m not terrified. There is vulnerability in being seen that no amount of writing can prepare you for. When you live through something like parental alienation, you become accustomed to your truth being dismissed, minimised, erased. You learn to hold it close, to protect it, because the world doesn’t always know how to respond to a story like this.

So handing this book over feels, in some way, like handing over the most fragile part of myself. But it also feels like the end of a long, hard season of holding on alone.

I promised myself I would close Adele and Nina in this book when it was finished. That I would let the past versions of themselves rest here, and that I would finally — finally — stop reliving the loss every single day.

I was true to my promise.

I have carried them with me in a way that has been both my survival and my undoing. To carry them is to love them. But to carry them this way, without release, is also to remain in the moment of losing them, over and over again.

This book is my portal… a transport back to them, but only if I chose I want to get on the journey.

If you are reading this, and you are carrying something heavy (a loss, a truth that no one wants to hear) I want you to know something:

You don’t have to carry it alone.

This is why I wrote this book. I believe that somewhere out there, someone else might read it and feel a little less alone in their own unbearable story. We are not meant to heal in isolation. We heal when we speak; when we write; when we let someone else say, I see you. I believe you.

Healing begins when we share our truth — Hope Is A Gentle Flicker

My memoir publishes next month.

If you feel called to read it, I would love to connect. If you know someone who might need to hear that their story matters too, I hope you’ll share it with them.

I’m handing the pages to you.

With gratitude,

Sienna

P.S. Keep connected in the Garden of Thoughts.

What it took to tell this story.

I’m only weeks away from publication day, and I find myself looking back. Looking back at this crazy, hopeful, self-destroying, brave account that has been writing this book.

Soon I will publish it. I will give it to the world, forever in the form it has come to be — with no room for changes. So before I let it go, I want to reflect on what the journey has been.

It is, of course, born from pain, grief and loss.

In my life, when I felt adrift and lost, I’ve always turned to a blank page. Putting my thoughts and feelings down on paper has always been, to me, a way of recycle myself and heal from what was hurting me.

When we lost my stepdaughters, the pain was unbearable.

I wouldn’t say it came all at once. I would say that for many months we lived in some sort of denial. But slowly, gradually, it came knocking at the door. And when I let it in, it was like a hurricane. Impossible to stop.

One day I thought: There must be a way of still talking to them even though we aren’t allowed to speak to them.

That’s when I bought the first diary. And I began writing to them… rewinding all the way to the start… detailing everything. It was like leaving proof of a truth that everyone was trying to erase.

I had no idea then that this would turn into an actual book.

I had no idea even when I bought the second diary, and the third. Again, it was an impulse. A little voice whispered: Maybe you could help others with your story.

I don’t remember the moment I opened my laptop and a blank Word document. Honestly, I don’t remember that moment, that day. I remember vaguely that the thought of turning this into something bigger took form in my mind, but I don’t recall putting it into practice.

And yet, I would spend the next three years writing on that Word document. Shy, insecure, but determined to give meaning to the sorrow we lived.

I think parental alienation can feel like a surreal experience. Grasping the true horror of it, even when going through it, can be hard. Overwhelming. The pages I was writing reminded me that it was real. That it was unfair, and that it needed to be spoken about.

They say that when something is too painful to endure, the brain plays a little trick and makes us forget just how painful it was — think of a woman giving birth, for example.

Now, looking back, I think it applies to parental alienation, too.

When you come out of it, or when things slightly improve, your brain forgets how heart-wrenching this was. I only fully remember when I re-read my own words.

These pages hold the truth that my mind sometimes tries to soften. They hold the voices of children I couldn’t reach. They hold the version of me who kept writing, even when I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.

“Hope Is A Gentle Flicker” took so long to write because I was reliving our experiences over and over again.

My husband got worried at some point. He asked me if this was a good idea — if this whole project wasn’t making me sick rather than helping. And yes, he was right; there was a point where it made me ill. It made me worse.

But isn’t it true that before things get better, they get worse? Before we can heal, we need to let go of a part of ourselves that doesn’t serve our purpose anymore. We need to outgrow ourselves. And this is extremely painful.

There were parts of the book that would destroy me while editing. I only know this when reflecting back. Some chapters would always insinuate inside me, and while I would stand there saying, I’m perfectly fine, they would destroy me inside. It would take days, sometimes weeks, to recover.

Editing the book was probably harder than writing it. Self-reflecting so deeply about our situations — they would leave me hollowed.

It was hard. I had to take long breaks. Come back to it like a stranger looking in. Detach… then start all over again.

And yet, somehow, I kept going.

And now, here I am. The book is no longer just mine.

For years, these pages lived inside my laptop, inside my head. They were my secret conversations with Adele and Nina. My proof that they existed, that they once loved us, that they mattered and we mattered to them, that no amount of silence could erase what we lived.

Now, in just a few weeks, those pages will belong to you.

So handing this book over feels, in some way, like handing over the most fragile part of myself. But it also feels like the end of a long, hard season of holding on alone.

I promised myself I would close Adele and Nina in this book when it was finished. That I would let the past versions of themselves rest here, and that I would finally — finally — stop reliving the loss every single day.

I was true to my promise.

I have carried them with me in a way that has been both my survival and my undoing. To carry them is to love them. But to carry them this way, without release, is also to remain in the moment of losing them, over and over again.

This book is my portal… a transport back to them, but only if I chose I want to get on the journey.

If you are reading this, and you are carrying something heavy (a loss, a truth that no one wants to hear) I want you to know something:

You don’t have to carry it alone.

This is why I wrote this book. I believe that somewhere out there, someone else might read it and feel a little less alone in their own unbearable story. We are not meant to heal in isolation. We heal when we speak; when we write; when we let someone else say, I see you. I believe you.

My memoir publishes next month.

If you feel called to read it, I would love to connect. If you know someone who might need to hear that their story matters too, I hope you’ll share it with them.

I’m handing the pages to you.

With gratitude,

Sienna

P.S. Keep connected in the Garden of Thoughts.

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