We tell stories all the time. At the kitchen table, in the car, after rehearsal, or in that conversation that starts, “I don’t usually tell people this…” We take something that happened, put it into words and hand it to another person. Sometimes hearing ourselves say it changes how we see it. Sometimes hearing someone else say, “I know that feeling,” makes the world feel a little less lonely.

That is the part of storytelling I find powerful. It can give a muddle some shape. It can help us feel recognised. It can let us borrow a little hope from someone who has been somewhere dark and found a way through. But I want to be careful with the word “healing”. Telling a story can help; it can also hurt. And it is not a substitute for proper treatment when someone needs it.

The research is useful here, partly because it makes us be more precise. The PICTURE trial studied 319 people with post-traumatic stress symptoms after intensive care. They were offered three sessions of narrative exposure with a GP, with nurse follow-up. On average, their symptoms improved compared with usual care. The difference was statistically significant, though it fell short of the trial’s own threshold for a clinically important change. This was planned work with trained clinicians and follow-up. It was not somebody saying, “Come on, tell us everything that happened,” and hoping for the best.

There is also research on hearing other people’s stories. In the English NEON trial, more than 1,000 adults with mental health problems were offered access to recorded recovery stories alongside their usual care. After a year, the group offered the stories had a small improvement in quality of life and in their sense of meaning. Encouraging, yes. A miracle cure, no. The study also had limits in its follow-up data. What it suggests is that carefully selected stories can help some people; it does not promise that any story will help any listener.

It matters how the story is told

There are risks in pushing someone to revisit painful experiences before they are ready, or in deciding that they need to “get it all out”. In a large trial of expressive writing with women affected by Hurricane Harvey, writing about trauma did not reduce post-traumatic stress symptoms overall. Participants felt more anxiety and sadness during the exercise, and the researchers said it may have worsened symptoms for some. That was a writing study, not a conversation study, so we should not pretend it answers every question about talking. It does remind us that revisiting a painful memory can stir things up.

A separate randomised trial of single-session psychological debriefing after trauma found no benefit in preventing PTSD, anxiety or depression. The point is not that people should never talk. It is that routine or compulsory retelling is a poor substitute for listening to what someone wants and needs. Choice, timing and support matter.

So, if you want to talk—or someone trusts you enough to start—here are a few things that may help:

• Ask what would help. “Do you want me to listen, help you think it through, or just sit with you for a bit?” can save everyone a lot of guesswork.
• Keep control of the size of the story. You do not owe anyone the full account. Tell one piece, pause, or stop. “That’s enough for today” is a complete sentence.
• Listen without auditioning to be the fixer. We can be very keen to produce a solution. Sometimes the useful thing is to stay there, pay attention and let the other person choose what comes next.
• Choose what you listen to. Another person’s recovery story may offer hope, but it is not a timetable or a test. Take what helps; leave the rest.
• Check in afterwards. Do you feel steadier, connected, stirred up or overwhelmed? A walk, a cup of tea or another conversation might be enough. If you feel unsafe or unable to manage, pause and speak to someone appropriately trained, such as your GP or a mental health professional.

And if you are the listener, be careful with the questions. “What happened next?” may be welcome; it may also be more than the person wants to give you. Let them set the pace. There is no certificate for perfect listening, thankfully. Just try not to turn someone’s difficult moment into a comparison, a diagnosis or a story about yourself.

Theatre has taught me that a story can bring people together in a room and let them recognise something of themselves in someone else. It is an odd arrangement: we sit in the dark while strangers make a mess of their lives, then applaud. But when a story gives someone a phrase for a feeling, or makes them feel less alone, that matters.

As a writer, I don’t think every story needs a neat ending. Real life is rarely that obliging. I do think people should have some say in where their story begins, how much they tell and when they stop. Sometimes the helpful thing is speaking. Sometimes it is hearing someone else put the feeling into words. And sometimes it is a listener who knows not to rush in with a solution.

Studies mentioned

• The PICTURE randomised controlled trial, BMJ (2025): GP-led narrative exposure after intensive care.
• The NEON randomised controlled trial, World Psychiatry (2024): recorded mental health recovery narratives.
• The Hurricane Harvey expressive-writing randomised trial, Psychological Medicine (2022).
• Emotional or educational debriefing after psychological trauma, British Journal of Psychiatry (2006).