We launched HuffPost Personal in 2018 in hopes of creating a corner of the internet where real people could share their real experiences in their own words. Since then, we’ve featured thousands of essays — some heartwarming, some harrowing, and all of them offering readers the potential to learn more about the world, themselves, and what it means to be profoundly human by encountering these extraordinary true stories.
To celebrate HuffPost’s 20th anniversary, we’ve compiled 20 of our favorite HuffPost Personal essays. If you have a compelling story to tell and would like us to consider it for publication, you can find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch.
I Wish I’d Had A ‘Late-Term Abortion’ Instead Of Having My Daughter
By Dina Zirlott
I was raped when I was 17 years old. I had a baby when I was 18 years old. My baby died when I was 19 years old.
I cannot recall the color of the sky when I woke up the morning I was raped, or what I did in the hours leading up to the assault. I think of it in terms of Before and After, and I’m caught right in between the two.
My Husband Sent Me A Seemingly Innocent Text. It Led Me To Discover He’d Been Cheating For Years.
By Dr. Samantha Gray
Three days before Valentine’s Day 2018, I discovered my husband of 13 years was cheating on me. Just 72 hours later, I participated in a student-led Valentine’s Day Q&A panel at the university where I teach as a psychologist with interests in social technologies.
Ironically, the students wanted the panel to talk about healthy relationships and love. I didn’t experience the panel as painful, but I still have no idea how I got through that event other than the protection provided by being in a state of shock.
I’m Black But Look White. Here Are The Horrible Things White People Feel Safe Telling Me.
By Miriam Zinter
My lovely day screeched to a halt.
“You know I’m Black, right?” I said, standing up as tall as my 5’4” frame would allow, the sun shining on my blond hair. I continued to pet his dogs, because I needed the comfort of petting dogs at that moment, and because I needed to keep my hands busy so they didn’t slap that man’s face.
After the usual back and forth of him saying “No!” and me saying “Yes!” and then him trying to gauge exactly “how Black I was” by asking which of my parents was Black and me replying “Both,” we had a very uncomfortable conversation about racism.
I’m 70 And I’ve Lived Alone My Entire Adult Life. Here’s What Everyone Gets Wrong About Single People.
By Bella DePaulo
I turned 70 this year, and I am so very grateful that I have gotten to do what many people consider unfathomable — I have stayed single my entire life. And as I grow older, my single life just keeps getting better and better.
Growing up, I never knew there was such a thing as choosing to stay happily single. I did know what people believed: that no one really wants to be single, or at least not for long; if they think they do, they are just fooling themselves. And if they really do stay single, they are going to grow increasingly sad and lonely as they age.
Now I know better. I don’t just live single; I am also a scholar of single life. As a social scientist, I’ve spent decades studying single people, scrutinizing the research of others, and rewriting what it can mean to be single.
I Gained 70 Pounds During COVID. Here’s What Happened On My First Day Back In The Office.
By Emily McCombs
When I started to hear people talking about the “COVID 15,” referring to the widespread phenomenon of quarantine weight gain, I thought it was cute because I had already gained more like 40 pounds.
Now, two years into a pandemic that drastically changed everything about the way we live, I’m estimating that number is closer to 70. (I haven’t weighed myself to be sure, but my clothing is now four or five sizes larger than when we took our laptops home from the office in March 2020, assuming we’d be back in a few weeks.)
In the privacy of my apartment, with no one to see me, it was easy to slip into brain-in-a-jar mode. But as restrictions begin to ease (whether wisely or unwisely), the world and its opinions about the way I look are about to come flooding back in.
This got real when my company announced our return-to-office date last week. For the first time in years, I was going to sit under fluorescent lights and be perceived. I was going to walk farther than from my bed to my couch in open terrain. I was going to be confronted with a reflection that contrasted with my mental image of myself in the office’s full-length bathroom mirror.
I’m Ending My Life Today. Here’s What I Want You To Know Before I Go.
By Mary Elizabeth Holliday
I am ending my life at a clinic in Switzerland today. This piece was written three weeks ago. I’ve been trapped for decades in a body that doesn’t function the way other bodies do and I am ready to finally be free.
The clinic charges $10,000, which people think is expensive, and it is, but if you were suffering the way I am, how much would you spend to end your misery? I applied in early March and heard back a few weeks later. They said my application had been approved and asked when I wanted to end my life. I told them I needed two months because I had a lot to get done before I leave. I wanted to go immediately, so I can end my pain, but I have loose ends to tie up and I want to say goodbye to the people I love.
I Was One Of The Most Famous Pop Stars In The World. No One Knew The Secret Pain I Hid.
By Darren Hayes
The year is 1997, and talk show host Rosie O’Donnell is interviewing me about the smash hit “I Want You.” It’s a song Rosie helped make a Billboard Top 5 hit, having played what she affectionately nicknamed “The Chica Cherry Cola Song” incessantly during her show’s intro segment for months prior to us even landing a U.S. record deal.
Rosie’s obsession led to U.S. airplay, then a bidding war between major record labels, and suddenly, there I was, Darren Hayes, this inwardly shy kid from Brisbane ― a blue-collar, conservative, hyper-masculine city in the north of Australia ― sitting comfortably on the couch of the biggest daytime television show in the United States, oozing star power as half of the hot new Australian pop duo Savage Garden.
To the casual observer, I appeared confident, full of swagger with my vaguely ’70s blow wave and a blue-black dye job that could rival Elvis in his prime. But my bravado was a carefully crafted persona, built to protect me from years of bullying at school, denial and shame about my sexuality, and a mask to hide the rapidly increasing depression that would soon become overwhelming.
I Was The Only Black Person At Elizabeth Gilbert And Cheryl Strayed’s ‘Brave Magic’ Retreat
By Laura Cathcart Robbins
My stomach begins to churn the moment I take my place at the back of the 200-plus person check-in line. However, it isn’t churning because of the length of the line. It is churning because I am the only black person in it.
Craning my neck to look as far down the line as possible, all I see are natural blond ponytails and top buns, whose wearers look like they were born holding a yoga mat in one hand and a Mason jar in the other.
Trolls Told Me I’m Too Ugly To Post Pics. Then I Did And Something Incredible Happened.
By Melissa Blake
“Melissa Blake should be banned from posting pictures of herself.”
Those were the words that greeted me one afternoon as I was scrolling the internet. It was just 10 words, left by a stranger in the comments of a YouTube video I was mentioned in, but they packed a powerful punch. I winced, but not as much as you might think.
Did those words hurt? Absolutely. Was I surprised by them? Not in the slightest. Sadly, I’ve come to expect them.
Let me back up a little first, though.
I Was A Virgin At 59. I Chose A Controversial Way To Have Sex — And I Couldn’t Be Happier.
By Leah Shefoe
I wanted to know what it would be like to be held, kissed and caressed. My friends suggested that I hire an escort. That way, they said, I would have control of the situation. There would be no pressure to have sex unless I wanted it. I liked the idea of being in charge of what happened, but I didn’t think I could ever really hire an escort.
Still, I was curious, and I began to browse agencies and independent escorts online. But when I read their descriptions of themselves, none seemed promising for my circumstances.
Late one night, I came across the website of a man I’ll call Antonio. He seemed genuine, respectful and gentle. Day after day, I went back to his site. I started fantasizing about him. I finally decided I had to contact him. My fear was that he would say no to taking me as a client, or that when we spoke, my social awkwardness would scare him away. I didn’t know what to write in my email to him. I chose to simply be honest.
I Took My White Husband’s Last Name. I Didn’t Realize How It Would Affect The Rest Of My Life.
By Allison Shiozawa Miles
I didn’t want to change my last name. I dragged my feet as a young 21-year-old bride, waging an internal battle between my desire to maintain my identity with the desire to embrace my new husband, which, tradition insisted, included his name.
For months after our wedding, I fought the decision, playfully suggesting that my new husband take my surname, Shiozawa. But the idea of a white man taking a Japanese surname when I had three brothers to carry it on — as though that would be the only valid reason to consider it — seemed absurd to everyone else. Never mind that my white mom and sisters-in-law have dutifully taken on a Japanese name without a second thought.
But if I didn’t adopt my husband’s surname, I’d be branded the worst kind of F-word in a conservative community: feminist. So, I eventually, if begrudgingly, complied. What I didn’t understand then was the way that decision would affect the rest of my life.
My Wife Of 45 Years Died. I Thought I Truly Knew Her — Until I Discovered Her Journals.
By Dan Fogel
People thought Sue was shy. Pleasant. Practical. She kept her emotions tight inside her. I reasoned that Sue was stoic — a person who could endure pain without complaining, and handle life’s inevitable deep hurts and disappointments without sharing the load. And I never asked her directly about her emotions.
After 45 years, I thought I knew her. But I didn’t.
My Sue left a few handwritten notes in books and files around the house, as well as several journals. When I began to read them, I found that she was not stoic. She had plenty of painful thoughts that she’d never said out loud.
“I think I hate him,” she once wrote, referring to me.
I Hid My True Identity For Decades. Here’s What Happened When I Finally Revealed Myself At 63.
By Caragh Donley
I never thought I’d be here. And yet just a few months ago, at the age of 63, I came out as a transgender woman.
First of all, I’m well aware there’s a cultural expectation in America that once you hit the age where 401(k)s become reality rather than theory, the most exciting experience you have left is seeing which closes up first — your arteries or your mind. This is supposed to be the time to start thinking about endings, not beginnings. Given all that, I realize how unlikely it is that anyone would take on perhaps the biggest do-over there is: gender transition.
Sometime In My 50s, I Became Invisible To Men. Here’s What I Didn’t Expect To Feel.
By Julia Williamson
I didn’t notice at first. It’s hard to sense the lack of a thing, like when you don’t realize your headache is gone until an hour after it starts to recede.
It’s not like I’d ever been a head-turner. Reasonably attractive, I’ve never stood out in the ways that make people either excited or uncomfortable. But I was pleasing enough (and pleasant enough) that I’d gather grins and glances.
But somewhere in my early 50s, people just stopped noticing me.
I started to have to say “Hello?” at the register to get the cashier’s attention. As I repeated my coffee order, I could see their eyes moving past me, lighting on younger, bolder, more interesting people.
“This is it,” I thought. “I’ve become invisible.”
I Didn’t Know If I Believed In The Afterlife. Then My Dead Father Sent Me A Message.
By Noah Michelson
Suddenly, the medium straightened up in his chair.
“Oh. There’s a man here with Ethel. I think it’s her son. Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded, maybe too eagerly.
“Did your dad pass recently, Noah?” he continued.
“Yes.”
“I think this is him and he has a message. Do you want to hear it?”
I inhaled sharply and held my breath longer than it wanted to be held.
I Accidentally Joined A Playgroup Full Of QAnon Moms. Here’s What Happened.
By Stefni Habachi
As a Houston transplant, and a Muslim homeschool mom in a state where homeschooling is popular among the alt-right, I had expected to find myself at its epicenter, but that hadn’t been the case until this year. Prior to 2020, I worked in academia and existed in circles that mimicked my own views. Even my Republican colleagues were shocked that Donald Trump won the 2016 election. As my adviser said the day after the election, “Well, it seems like I’ve been sittin’ in the Ivory Tower too long to know what’s goin’ on out there.” It should also be noted, Houston is a very “blue” city and extremely diverse.
But, when I joined the homeschool group in my Houston suburb, I came into touch with a different reality.
My Dad Was Gay — But Married To My Mom For 64 Years. As She Died, I Overheard Something I Can’t Forget.
By Laura Hall
I doubted they had the marriage they wanted, though neither of them ever let on to me that they were unhappy. Decades later, I asked my mother if she wished they had split up when she found out he was gay.
“Oh, nooo, Laurie,” she said, drawing out the word no. “I love your father.”
The years passed. As far as I could tell, they didn’t have an open marriage. But my mother supported my father when he created the first LGBT section in the local library and volunteered as an AIDS buddy for the Shanti Project in the 1990s.
On the night before my mother died in 2006, she lay unconscious in bed while my father hosted relatives in the kitchen. I sat at my mother’s bedside, wondering if he might let her final moments slip away without saying goodbye. I wondered if I had been wrong all along about their relationship being a loving one.
My 11-Year-Old Patient Was Pregnant. Here’s What I Want You To Know About Being ‘Pro-Life.’
By Dipti S. Barot
A few minutes later, our medical assistant came to me, panicked, and handed me a positive test. “Run it again,” I asked her, agape. She ran it again. Positive. “Run it again,” I sputtered — to buy some time and gather my wits and hope by some miracle it would produce a different result. Positive.
She was my patient. She was 11. She was pregnant.
I sat Sophia’s mom down in another room and quietly explained to her that the pregnancy test came back positive.
She didn’t understand.
I had to repeat myself multiple times in various ways for her to comprehend that Sophia was pregnant. Shock, tears, a cellphone call. Soon a breathless dad showed up, followed by a somber family priest, and then the cops. I remember the adults weeping in a prayer circle in a separate room and the feeling of watching a nightmare unfold, and I had to remind myself that, sometimes, the job is bearing witness to the worst day of someone’s life.
This Is What Life Is Really Like When You Weigh Over 400 Pounds
By Juliet James
I am an “infinifat” person. I prefer this term than the medically meaningless, and offensive, “morbidly obese” most would use to describe my body. At almost 44, I have spent nearly three decades weighing over 300 pounds. My lowest adult weight was 325 pounds in June of 2000. It took extreme food restriction, plus a lot of walking (I lived in New York City) to get me to that number (from a starting point of 380 pounds roughly 18 months earlier). There was also a lot of weight cycling (aka yo-yo dieting) during that time.
My behaviors were far from healthy, despite my weight loss being lauded (by the people who even noticed it) as evidence that I was working to be healthier. Ha! Not so much. I was working to be thin, and if you don’t think there’s a difference, you are deeply mistaken. Thinness at any cost will not make a person healthy, but that’s exactly what society wants from fat people.
In the nine months that followed that one-off sighting of 325 on my scale, I gained 75 pounds back. I am currently at 445 pounds.
This Is What My Life Is Like As The Highest-Earning Legal Sex Worker In The U.S.
By Alice Little
I describe myself as the country’s highest-earning worker in the world’s oldest profession, by which I mean I make more than any other sex worker at any legal brothel in the U.S.
Cue the raised eyebrows, contemptuous stares and not-so-subtle judgment. Bring on the intense curiosity, too ― because I am a novelty. Everyone has their preconceived notions of what a sex worker looks, sounds and acts like, but I don’t fit any of those stereotypes. I’m a petite Irish lady standing just 4 feet, 8 inches tall. I’m well-educated and well-spoken. I’m not the victim of tragic circumstance. I had options and I chose to be a legal sex worker. Yes, on purpose! Despite sex work being so highly stigmatized, I love my job because I get to help people rediscover personal connections and intimacy.