Stacy Newton shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Hi Stacy, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy day to share your story, experiences and insights with our readers. Let’s jump right in with an interesting one: What makes you lose track of time—and find yourself again?
I often lose track of time when I’m immersed in writing, whether it’s a book or a script. In those moments, the outside world fades, and I rediscover parts of myself on the page—pieces of thought, imagination, and truth that remind me why I create in the first place.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
My name is Stacy Newton, and I am a writer. Writing, for me, is more than just putting words on a page—it is the art of building worlds and breathing life into characters. Whether through novels or screenplays, I create spaces where imagination becomes reality, if only for the span of a reader’s experience.
What I love most about storytelling is its living quality. Once a world is built and the foundation set, the characters begin to take on lives of their own. They speak, act, and make choices that even I, their creator, cannot always predict. In many ways, they are the ones guiding me, allowing me to embark on the journey they wish to go on.
This is the unique magic of storytelling: the blend of creativity and discovery. With every page, I’m not just telling a story—I’m uncovering it. Each twist, each moment of triumph or failure, belongs as much to the characters as it does to me. And when a reader steps into those pages, the world feels as though it has always been there, waiting to be explored.
For me, that is the gift of writing: to create something alive, something lasting, and something that connects us all through the shared experience of story.
Okay, so here’s a deep one: What breaks the bonds between people—and what restores them?
Human connection is one of the most fragile yet powerful forces in our lives. It shapes us, sustains us, and gives meaning to our stories. But just as bonds can be formed, they can also be broken.
Bonds often break when trust falters. Lies, betrayal, neglect, or even silence can create cracks in relationships that once felt unshakable. Sometimes, the breaking isn’t violent or sudden but quiet and slow—the gradual drifting apart that comes when people stop listening, stop showing up, or stop believing in one another. Pride and unspoken resentment widen the distance until the bond feels like it no longer exists.
Yet, just as bonds can be broken, they can also be restored. What heals people is often surprisingly simple: honesty, vulnerability, and the willingness to forgive. When someone admits fault, shows genuine care, or simply chooses to stay when leaving would be easier, the pieces begin to knit back together. Restoration requires courage—a leap of faith that rebuilding is worth the risk of being hurt again.
And sometimes, restoration isn’t about returning to what was but creating something new. Bonds can be reforged in different shapes, stronger because they’ve survived the fire of conflict or distance.
In the end, what breaks the bonds between people is often fear—fear of being honest, of being vulnerable, of being hurt. And what restores them is love—the kind of love that chooses truth, forgiveness, and presence over fear.
What have been the defining wounds of your life—and how have you healed them?
Wounds shape us. Some are visible, some are not. They live in the quiet corners of our memory, sometimes whispering to us, shouting. They can hold us back or push us forward, depending on how we choose to face them.
For me, the defining wound of my life has been the feeling of never being good enough. It lingered in the background of every achievement, whispering that I could have done more, that I could have been more. It made success feel fleeting and failure feel permanent—this wound colored relationships, opportunities, and even how I saw myself.
Healing didn’t come all at once. It wasn’t a sudden revelation or a perfect moment of clarity. It came slowly, like light seeping through a cracked door. I began to realize that “good enough” is not a universal standard—it is a cage we build out of comparisons and expectations.
The first step in healing was learning to separate my worth from my performance. I am not only the sum of what I produce. I also cherish the quiet moments, the laughter shared with friends, the care I show to others, and the resilience I’ve built through surviving.
The second step was acceptance. Accepting that imperfection is part of being human, and that striving for growth doesn’t mean striving for flawlessness. In truth, the people I admire most are not perfect—they are real. And in their realness, they remind me that I am enough, too.
The wound of never feeling good enough may never fully disappear. But in facing it, I’ve found strength. I’ve found that healing doesn’t mean erasing scars—it means wearing them with honesty and grace, knowing they tell a story of survival and growth.
And perhaps the greatest act of healing has been this: learning to believe that being myself, as I am, is already enough.
I think our readers would appreciate hearing more about your values and what you think matters in life and career, etc. So our next question is along those lines. What’s a belief or project you’re committed to, no matter how long it takes?
Within all of us, there is a story waiting to be told. Some are stories we make up—worlds we build in our imaginations, characters who live only in our minds until we give them form. Others are the true stories of our lives, the ones shaped by our struggles, triumphs, heartbreaks, and hopes.
Whether imagined or lived, these stories matter. They are the heartbeat of the world. They connect us across differences, generations, and distances. They remind us that we are not alone in our joys or in our sorrows.
For me, the commitment is simple: stories must be told. In a script, in a novel, in a fragment of prose scribbled on a page—however they come, they deserve to exist outside of our heads and hearts. Because when we share them, we give them life, and in turn, they give life back to others.
I know this is not always a quick process. Sometimes, stories take years to find their shape and reveal their true voices. Sometimes the courage to write them down comes slowly. But however long it takes, I am committed to the work. Every story has a time, and when it is ready, it must be brought forth.
Stories keep the pulse of the world alive. And as long as I am able, I will write, shape, and share them—because our stories are not just ours alone. They belong to the human thread that binds us all together.
Okay, so before we go, let’s tackle one more area. What pain do you resist facing directly?
For me, the pain I resist most is failure.
Failure is a shadow that lingers, no matter how far I move forward. It asks hard questions that I don’t always want to face: Have I truly done enough? Have I worked hard enough, dreamed big enough, lived up to what others expected of me—or even to what I expected of myself?
It’s not always the failure itself that hurts. Sometimes, it’s the weight of other people’s expectations. The silent judgment. The fear that my efforts won’t measure up, that what I’ve created—or who I’ve become—will never be enough in someone else’s eyes.
So I avoid it. I push the thought of failure aside, burying it beneath ambition, busywork, or the next goal. But avoidance doesn’t erase the fear; it only delays the confrontation. And the truth is, no matter how much I resist, failure still waits patiently, asking to be acknowledged.
What I’m learning, slowly, is that failure is not the end—it’s part of the process. It’s not proof of weakness but evidence of effort. To fail means I tried, I risked, I cared enough to put something of myself into the world.
I still resist facing it directly, but I know that healing begins with honesty. By naming failure for what it is—not a verdict, but a teacher—I can begin to release its grip. And perhaps, in time, I’ll see failure not as something to fear, but as something that keeps me human, humble, and moving forward.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.stacyknewton.com
- Instagram: skyowriter
- Linkedin: Stacy Newton
- Facebook: Stacy Newton
Image Credits
First photo Adam Sheridan-Taylor
