Author Your Own Story
For years, Kathleen Buhle—formerly Biden—has been a tireless advocate for women. Whether by helping provide legal support for domestic abuse victims or fostering community among women in DC, her advocacy and nonprofit work has given many women critical support for sharing their stories and voices.
Now she’s giving voice to the most revelatory story she’s faced yet: her own.
In her memoir, If We Break: A Memoir of Marriage, Addiction and Healing, published this week, Kathleen opens up about her marriage and very public divorce from Hunter Biden; addiction’s devastating impact on relationships; and how she found resilience and healing through it all.
In this episode of Beyond the Prescription, Kathleen and I talk about parenting through trauma; the power of forgiveness; and the myriad health benefits of facing adversity head on. As Kathleen’s doctor, I’ve watched her struggle and grow—emotionally and physically. Now, as I listen to her tell her own story, the power of personal storytelling and self-compassion is abundantly clear.
Give this episode a listen on Apple, Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts—and be sure to let me know what you think! If you like it, I hope you'll subscribe and stay tuned for more.
My son George graduated from high school this weekend. The night before graduation, my parents hosted a family barbeque to celebrate the occasion. Swatting mosquitoes in their backyard over pork barbeque and cake, we laughed, cooed over a stack of baby pictures, and reminisced about various chapters in George’s life. My impromptu toast—replete with wet mascara running down my face—paid special tribute to his kindness toward others and, reassuringly for me, a recent demonstration of compassion for himself.
Last month during a regular work day, my husband and I received an email from the dean of his high school, the subject line of which read: “George McBride.” My maternal anxiety immediately went bonkers. What has he done? Is he okay? Which hospital is the ambulance heading for?
I clicked on the email. “Dear Dr. and Mr. McBride, George just shared one of the most tender and honest talks with our upper school. You should be very proud.”
I thought to myself: This can’t be right. George isn’t attention-seeking. He’s also not one to talk about his feelings (despite his mother’s drum-beating about naming our emotions). Plus, I thought, George most certainly would have told me and my husband about such an important event.
So I texted him. “George, did you just deliver a TALK to the entire upper school???”
A “thumbs up” emoji reply popped up immediately. I could hear his wide smile through my phone.
Tears of pride rolled down my face. I later learned that standing in front of his peers, George told his pandemic story, a chapter of his life full of struggle, self-doubt, and social isolation during COVID—one that forced him to drill down into his core, face vulnerability, and look beyond himself for support.
I rushed home after finishing up my day with patients to hug George. I gazed up at him and said, “I’m curious why you didn’t mention a peep about this talk to me and dad!” He replied, “Mom, I wanted to do this for me.” At that moment, it was clear to me that a page had turned. A new chapter had begun. That my son was officially authoring his own story—rightfully so!—and that this new chapter opened with self-compassion.
Parenting is a constant push-pull between love and loss, offering support and letting go. To me, one of the hardest parts of parenting is the helplessness associated with not being able to access your child’s emotions, especially when they’re clearly suffering. At the same time, one of the most glorious parts about parenting is when you realize they got through a hard time—and maybe even learned something from it.
Similarly, one of the hardest parts of my job is helping patients access—and ultimately edit—sometimes harmful internal narratives. For example, my patient who convinced herself that she could never lose weight was finally able to do it when she stopped the shaming self-talk (and the fad diets that fed it), recognized the emotional roots of her relationship with food, and asked for the appropriate help. Or, as another example, my patient whose alcohol use accelerated during the pandemic. Acknowledging the existence of her long-standing anxiety—something she’d never countenanced until middle age—helped her cut back on booze, navigate uncomfortable feelings, and ultimately get healthier from the inside out.
After all, the stories that we tell ourselves directly inform our everyday self-esteem, our relationships, and our behaviors. Sometimes the stories are rooted in childhood. Sometimes they stem from a single adverse experience. Sometimes they reflect a painful external reality that we cannot change. The voices can sometimes be cruel—even punishing—when they tell us, for example, that we’re unattractive, unfit, or unworthy of love. They also can be dead wrong when they tell someone—like Kathleen Buhle for example—that we can “fix” a loved one’s addiction through our own strength and stoicism.
It turns out that letting go of our desire for control is sometimes the ticket to actually being in control of our own story. Radical acceptance of painful realities—and the narratives that reinforce them—requires bold self-awareness and tolerance for distress. It’s also the key to improving our health.
The first step? An honest telling of our own story.
You don’t have to write a book to be self-aware. You don’t have to publicly discuss vulnerability to be healthy. But by acknowledging our own story—and by separating fact from fiction in our own telling of it—we can turn the page to improved health and well-being.
I will see you next week. Until then, be well.