 |
| Adriana Ortiz |
For each person, this endeavour is an intensely individual journey, because of course, we are all inherently different. However, I would like to share a glimpse into my own journey, my personal foray into the world of memoir writing. What started 15 years ago as a simple, private journal has gradually evolved into a fully fledged manuscript, boasting 250 pages of three printed drafts.
My journey towards public sharing started during a conversation with Peter Carter, an analysis editor, coincidentally, from Law360 Canada. I casually mentioned that I had been compiling a journal. It was a remark stemming from a piece I wrote about Narcos, the Netflix show, and my own lived experience in Medellin, Colombia. To my surprise, he expressed interest in reading it. I paused, considering the implications, the potential exposure. Then, I thought to myself, "Why not? What’s the harm?" The risks seemed minimal, given that I only wanted him to see the struggle of the country through my eyes. My journal would be for his eyes only, or so I thought.
The journal was intensely personal — a repository of raw emotions, unfiltered thoughts, and unguarded reflections. It wasn’t crafted for public consumption. It was, in essence, a visceral snapshot of my inner turmoil during a particularly distressing period in my life. A time marked by profound personal challenges and societal upheaval. Despite its imperfections, the often-disjointed prose and unconventional structure, it was authentic, a true and unvarnished representation of my life story.
On that day, steeling myself against potential judgment and bracing for the possibility of misinterpretation, I made the decision to share the unedited pages, warts and all, with Mr. Carter. These typed pages, filled with my writing’s frantic energy and fueled by a desperate need for catharsis, revealed not just my personal experiences and struggles, but also offered a poignant glimpse into the collective suffering of a nation caught in the crosshairs of rampant crime.
A second, pivotal moment in my decision to continue writing arrived in 2022, when I was invited on Endangered Lawyer Day to deliver a one-hour speech titled “Silver Bullets and Lawyering Under Fire.” This presentation was, once again, deeply personal, an exploration of the Rule of Law viewed through the personal lens of growing up and working as a lawyer in Colombia. Stepping onto that platform was a moment of profound vulnerability. Thankfully, it was through Zoom. As I began to speak, weaving together legal principles with the raw realities of my past, I remember gripping the edge of my desk with a white-knuckled grip, my body trembling with a mixture of nerves and the weight of the stories I was about to share.
Initially, my mind drifted, unwelcome, to that harrowing day — the kidnapping. A disorienting time, when I was trapped within the claustrophobic confines of a white truck. The world outside was reduced to blurred shapes. The cold metal of a gun barrel, undeniably real and terrifying, pressed cruelly against my temple.
I wrestled with that particular memory, knowing it was just one shard of a much larger, more important mosaic. My intention was, and still is, to share many more stories about closely witnessing the suffering and loss of life, endured by countless courageous public officials, lawyers and journalists in Colombia. These individuals, often at great personal risk and sacrifice, fought tirelessly to uphold the Rule of Law.
I fondly recall the overwhelming wave of emotions that washed over me in the aftermath of delivering that speech. There was a sense of relief, certainly, but also a mix of hesitancy and trepidation. I had dared to expose a part of myself, to connect my personal narrative to a larger, more abstract concept.
In the days that followed, my newfound willingness to share was tested. I received an invitation to speak again — this time in front of a larger audience, a daunting prospect that immediately ignited a fresh wave of anxiety. The fear of being judged, or worse, marginalized for sharing such intimate details of my experiences, threatened to paralyze me. After a period of intense internal debate, I ultimately chose to decline the offer.
Deep down, I knew that I was not yet adequately prepared for the level of exposure that would come with a broader platform. I realized that it wasn’t the audience’s potential perception of my story that troubled me; rather, it was a more insidious feeling, a nagging sense of shame that lingered within me. This shame wasn't rooted in a reality of external judgment but in my own complicated relationship with my arduous journey. I was acutely aware of the richness and complexity of my human experiences, the tapestry woven from threads of joy, sorrow, fear and doubt. But instead of feeling empowered by these experiences, I felt a persistent reluctance to share them more publicly.
This year, as I completed the first draft of this memoir, however, a sense of resolution settled over me. I knew, with a certainty that transcended fear, that it was finally time to break free and embrace it.
I understand if you're hesitant to share. We’re often conditioned to guard our privacy and rarely engage in complete disclosure, especially when it comes to our personal lives. However, I reached a point where I felt as if I was concealing a fundamental part of myself. These events, both challenging and triumphant, have been instrumental in shaping me into the person I am today.
In a moment of deep reflection, I couldn’t help but acknowledge the remarkable lives and legacies of extraordinary female trailblazers: Justice Sonia Sotomayor, and The Right Honourable Beverley McLachlin, P.C., C.C., who have bravely shared their life stories. These women have fearlessly carved out paths in fields traditionally dominated by men, shattering glass ceilings and blazing trails for future generations. Reading their memoirs was a humbling experience, to say the least. They served as a powerful source of inspiration.
I leave you with one last thought: I’ve come to learn about Kintsugi, a beautiful Japanese art form. Kintsugi revolves around the philosophy of repairing broken pottery with gold. This practice not only restores the item to functionality, but also deliberately highlights its imperfections, transforming past breaks and fractures into stunning, eye-catching features. It’s a powerful metaphor for embracing one’s experiences and scars, demonstrating that there is profound beauty in the cracks and the scars of our lives.
So, to answer your question: if you’re considering writing your memoir, I wholeheartedly advise you to do it!! Think about all of us, waiting to become inspired by you.
Adriana Ortiz is a criminal defence lawyer and has a GPLLM from the University of Toronto Faculty of Law. You can contact her at adriana@adrianaortizrlaw.ca.
The opinions expressed are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author’s firm, its clients, Law360 Canada, LexisNexis Canada, or any of its or their respective affiliates. This article is for general information purposes and is not intended to be and should not be taken as legal advice.
Interested in writing for us? To learn more about how you can add your voice to Law360 Canada contact Analysis Editor Peter Carter at peter.carter@lexisnexis.ca or call 647-776-6740.