How Shared Reading changed me.
- Christopher Smith
- 1 day ago
- 5 min read
A personal reflection on courage and the power that comes with learning to sit with discomfort and self-doubt...
In 2010 I sat in a room with nine people I didn’t know. They all knew each other. They were members of a social club that had met weekly for years. All over 65, they carried the vibrant energy that comes from belonging. I had been invited to facilitate a Shared Reading session.
They had that comfortable, “come and entertain me” air that can unnerve a newcomer. They were forthright. There would be no false politeness. I sat ruffling my papers, pretending to consult my notes, waiting for the right moment to begin.
The week before, I had been in Chester, training in Shared Reading. At the end of the course, the trainer said, “Don’t wait. Jump straight in. Strike while the iron is hot — otherwise you’ll lose your nerve.”
I had never been one to jump straight in. I was cautious by nature. But something about Shared Reading had gripped me. I knew it was what I had been looking for. If I didn’t begin immediately, I might retreat into overthinking.
So, I told Maureen Whyberd.
Maureen was a force of nature. She founded the non-profit Open Age, beginning with just ten volunteers forming social groups in North Kensington. Under her leadership it grew into an organisation offering hundreds of weekly activities promoting healthy bodies, minds and souls among older people across West London. She convened the group I was about to facilitate.
At the end of any meeting, she would review the list and ask, “Which of these can we tick off right away?” Waiting, to her, was a kind of death.
If you made a commitment to Maureen, you honoured it. She would not indulge talk of nerves. “Nonsense,” she would say. “It doesn’t matter what people think.” She lived that philosophy — riding her green bicycle with bright pink panniers through London, unapologetically herself.
I told her because she wouldn’t let me back out.
The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want Shared Reading. It was that I wanted it too much. It felt precious. If that first session failed, I would have to reassess something that already felt central to my future.
Ignorance Is a Blessing
If I had known what it would take to establish Shared Reading — the rejection, the indifference, the dead ends — I might not have tried. But what you don’t know can’t stop you.
So, I blundered forward, half-cooked and optimistic. I carried a hope — one I still hold — that literature can soften the harshness of the world. That sharing stories can help us connect and navigate our trials.
You imagine readiness will announce itself — that you will reach some internal checkpoint and feel prepared. In reality, there is no sign. You move forward while part of you resists.
In me, that resistance was perfectionism.
The Need to Be Beyond Reproach
My perfectionism is rooted in a fear of judgment. I am sensitive. Criticism — even constructive — can devastate me. If someone finds fault in my work, it feels personal.
That makes facilitation difficult. If you wait until everything is perfect, you never begin. There is always something missing.
What I have learned — slowly — is that the missing piece often belongs to someone else. Collaboration is not a failure of competence; it is the natural order of things.
But in those early sessions, I did not know this.
Learning to Stay
That first session felt like survival. My back was damp with nerves. The room was lively with banter while I focused solely on getting through.
For years I facilitated like this — hypervigilant. I felt responsible for everyone’s mood. If someone disliked a story, I felt crushed. I scanned faces for micro-expressions. A stray frown could trigger panic.
Shared Reading deepens group cohesion. And when people feel safe, they become more fully themselves. They offer real opinions. They disagree. They reveal vulnerability.
This is growth — but it can be challenging for a sensitive facilitator.
I remember one session vividly. I chose Ron Rash’s Ascent. I had skim-read it. I thought it was wistful — a lonely boy exploring the woods. I expected nostalgia.
As I read aloud, I realised I had misjudged it. The boy’s parents were not simply distant; they were drug-addicted. The tone was despair, not wistfulness. The ending was devastating — the boy stranded in a snowstorm, imagining escape inside a crashed aeroplane.
When I finished, the room was heavy with grief. Not reflective melancholy — thick, wordless sadness.
I felt dread. Why had I inflicted this on them?
Finally someone said, “Well, we must read all kinds of stories, eh? It’s important not to deny reality.”
I was grateful. I had no words.
Transforming Panic
Better preparation might have prevented that experience. But the deeper issue was not story selection. It was my need for everyone to be happy.
I realised I was people-pleasing. If others were distressed, I felt guilty. If they disliked a text, I felt responsible.
Behind that guilt was a desire to be liked. Behind that, a need to feel safe — not abandoned.
Shared Reading exposed this pattern. I had believed I could regulate the room’s emotions through literature — steer people toward hope if things became bleak. But that reassurance was for me, not for them.
With the help of friends and mental health professionals, I began to understand that I may not control what I feel — anxiety, panic, doubt — but I can understand it. And understanding is half the battle.
Now, when discomfort arises, I let it exist without judgment. I tell new facilitators that self-doubt is part of the work. You are responsible for curating content — but not for controlling outcomes.
Being able to tolerate unpleasant feelings allows more truth into the room. It allows you to hold space rather than manage experience. It builds the knowledge that no single moment can destroy you.
When you learn to sit with your own discomfort, you can sit with someone else’s.
Holding Space
Despite my nerves in that first session, something important happened. After reading a passage about a woman returning home from a mental health hospital, one member said quietly, “I have depression.”
That was all. Another woman reached out and touched her hand.
Afterwards Maureen said, “That was amazing. We never knew that about Sue.”
My head was spinning with relief at having survived. But I knew then that this was only the beginning.
Shared Reading has not made me less sensitive. It has made me stronger with my sensitivity. It has taught me that I am not responsible for everyone’s happiness — only for the integrity of the space.
It has shown me that growth requires discomfort, that collaboration requires humility, and that connection does not depend on perfection.
In that first session, green and panicked, I managed — somehow — to hold the room.
And in learning to hold that room, I began to learn how to hold myself.
You can read 'Ascent' by Ron Rash as a PDF here...
For more information and inspiration from Shared Reading and our Life the Universe & Stories blog,
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