Are you trying Story Marketing? · WELLNESS PRO ACADEMY

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23d (edited) • LEADS

Are you trying Story Marketing?

I started reading this and was thinking, about the time she woke up feeling rested, wow this would be a great ad for these sheets! Lo and behold, it's an ad for sheets!! I'm not sharing for the sheets, but just because I thought about the marketing piece we all do.

@Nina Pullella

it's similar to what you did recently with how you got in to Ayurveda. I loved that post and was very drawn in to it!

I'm thinking it would be a good way to capture our testimonials... maybe asking our clients for a testimonial and then writing short stories about them for those of us that like stories.

I'm really curious about what other Pros think? Have you tried it? Tested it? Any feedback? Ideas on how else to use stories like this?

Here is the story: (I deleted the link because AI google reviews suggested it MAY be fraudulent)

My husband and I slept at his ex wife's house during a flood. We did it in her bed.

And it saved our marriage.

Last September, Bill and I were driving back from his mother's 80th birthday when the rain started. Not normal rain. The kind where you can't see the car in front of you and the highway turns into a river in twenty minutes.

We pulled over twice. It got worse. By 9pm, the roads near our house were closed. Water over the bridges. No way home until morning at the earliest.

Bill looked at his phone. Then at me.

'Sharon lives ten minutes from here.'

Sharon. His ex wife. Married to her for six years before me. Divorced twenty years ago. They're civil. Christmas cards. Happy birthdays to the kids. She came to his mother's 70th birthday. Nice enough.

But I'd never been inside her house.

'Bill, we are not staying at your ex wife's house.'

'Donna, the roads are closed. We're not sleeping in the car.'

He called her. She said of course. Come over. Guest room is all yours.

I sat in the passenger seat with my arms crossed like a teenager.

'One night,' I said.

'One night,' he said.

We pulled into her driveway at 9:30. I checked my reflection in the visor mirror. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Wearing the oversized fleece and leggings I'd thrown on for a three-hour car ride to his mother's house.

Sharon opened the door in a silk robe. Hair down. Smelled like vanilla.

Of course she did.

She hugged Bill. The kind of hug where her hand touched the back of his neck for just a second longer than it needed to.

Then she hugged me. 'Donna, I'm so glad you're both safe. Come in, come in.'

Her house was warm. Not just the temperature. Everything. Candles on the entryway table. Soft lighting. Music playing quietly from somewhere. A throw blanket draped over a leather chair that looked like someone had just been curled up in it reading.

The house smelled like a woman who was expecting company even when she wasn't.

I looked down at my fleece. The one with the coffee stain on the sleeve from this morning that I told myself no one would notice.

Bill was looking around. 'Place looks great, Sharon.'

'Oh stop. I just like things cozy.'

Cozy. My house is "fine." Hers is "cozy."

She walked us down the hallway. Family photos on the walls. Her kids. Her new husband — who was apparently traveling for work, which is why she was alone, which is something I was trying very hard not to think about.

She opened the guest room door. 'Fresh towels in the bathroom. Extra blankets in the closet if you need them. Make yourselves at home.'

She smiled at Bill. 'Just like old times. Minus the arguing.'

They both laughed. I didn't.

She closed the door. I looked at Bill.

'She looks good.'

'Donna.'

'I'm just saying. She looks good. Silk robe at 9:30 on a Tuesday. Candles lit. Hair down. She looks like she was waiting for someone.'

'She was watching TV.'

'In a silk robe.'

'What do you want her to wear? A hazmat suit?'

'I want her to wear something that doesn't make me feel like I showed up to a job interview in sweatpants.'

Bill sat on the bed. 'Donna, we are here because the roads are flooded. That's it. Can we just sleep and go home in the morning?'

'Fine.'

I went to the bathroom to wash my face. Her guest bathroom had a linen hand towel, a candle that had been burned halfway down, and a small vase of dried eucalyptus.

My guest bathroom has a roll of toilet paper and a pump bottle of hand soap from Costco.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tired. Puffy. The bags under my eyes that never go away anymore because I haven't slept more than four hours straight in years. The fleece with the coffee stain.

And down the hall, Sharon. In her silk robe. In her warm, candlelit house. Looking like she sleeps eight hours a night because she probably does.

I hit menopause at 50. And I have not slept well since.

The hot flashes at 2am. You finally fall asleep and then your body turns into a furnace. You throw the sheets off. Twenty minutes later you're freezing. You pull them back up. An hour later you're drenched again. By 3am the sheets are tangled around your ankles, you're lying on a bare mattress shivering, and you're so tired you could cry but your body won't let you sleep.

Then the alarm goes off and you start the whole day on four hours of broken sleep. Make coffee. Go through the motions. Pray you can keep your eyes open through dinner. Fall into bed at 9pm. Do it all over again.

I've been doing that for five years.

You stop caring about things when you're that tired. Not all at once. But slowly.

I stopped putting flowers on the table. Stopped lighting candles. Stopped caring what the bedroom looked like. The bedroom was just the place I went to lose the fight every night.

I stopped wanting to go anywhere. Bill would ask if I wanted to get dinner and I'd already be on the couch in my robe by 5:30. He'd ask if I wanted to go for a walk and I'd make that face — the one where your mouth says 'maybe tomorrow' but your eyes say 'please don't make me.'

Eventually he stopped asking.

The closeness went too. Not with a fight. Not with a conversation. Just a slow drift.

He'd get into bed and stay on his side. I'd get into bed and stay on mine. Some nights I'd lie there at 2am listening to him breathe — deep, easy, peaceful — and feel this wave of loneliness that didn't make any sense because he was right there. Three feet away. But it might as well have been miles.

We hadn't touched each other in years. Not really. Not the way you're supposed to touch someone you've been married to for 33 years.

He'd put his hand on my back when we walked through a parking lot. I'd squeeze his arm at his mother's birthday. But in bed? Nothing. Just two people lying in the dark on their own sides with a strip of hot, clammy sheets between them.

He stopped complimenting me too. Not in a mean way. He just stopped. The only thing I'd heard in about a decade was the casual 'you look nice' on the way out the door. The one husbands say because they know they're supposed to say something.

So there I was. Standing in his ex wife's bathroom. Looking at her linen hand towels and her eucalyptus and her halfway-burned candle. Looking at myself — exhausted, puffy, wearing a stained fleece — in her mirror.

I came back to the bedroom. Bill was already under the covers.

I sat on the edge of the bed to take off my shoes. I was going to scroll my phone until I fell asleep and get out of this house as early as possible in the morning.

But I just sat there. My hand was resting on the sheets and I was running my fingers across them without realizing I was doing it. The way you'd pet a dog that walked up to you while you were thinking about something else.

I looked down. A pale, stone-washed flax color. Soft but textured. Not slippery. Not stiff. The kind of fabric that looked like it had already been lived in and loved. Rumpled and beautiful without trying.

I pulled back the top sheet and slid underneath. Let it settle over me.

It was cool. Not cold — cool. The way the other side of a pillow feels at 2am. The linen touched my skin and it was like my whole body exhaled. Like every muscle had been braced for the last five years and suddenly didn't need to be.

I was asleep in minutes.

I don't know what time it was when I woke up. But it was still dark. Still raining. And I was still comfortable. The sheets were still draped over me. I hadn't kicked them off. I hadn't woken up drenched. I hadn't fought with anything.

I realized Bill was close. Closer than he'd been in years. He'd moved to the middle of the bed without either of us noticing.

The room was dark. The rain was hitting the windows. And for the first time in years I was lying in bed next to my husband and I wasn't thinking about how tired I was or how hot I was or how much I wanted to rip everything off my body.

I was just there. Cool. Comfortable. My skin calm for the first time in so long I'd forgotten what it felt like.

He reached over and put his hand on my arm.

I didn't pull away.

I'm not going to say anything else about that night. But I will say this.

It had been five years. Five years since I'd felt comfortable enough in my own skin to not flinch when my husband reached for me. Five years since lying in bed felt like anything other than a punishment. Five years since I remembered what it was like to actually want to be close to someone instead of counting the minutes until I could throw the sheets off again.

And it happened in his ex wife's guest room. Of all the places in the world.

The next morning I woke up and looked at the clock. 7:45am.

I'd slept almost nine hours. I hadn't slept nine hours since my 40s.

Bill was still asleep. On my side of the bed. His hand still on my arm.

I lay there for a long time. Running my fingers across the sheets. They were even softer than the night before. Warmer from our bodies but still breathable. Listening to the rain slow down.

I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to leave this bed. I wanted to stay in this exact moment for as long as I could.

Bill woke up around 8:15. Looked at me. Looked at the clock.

'What time is it?'

'Almost 8:30.'

'I slept through the whole night.'

'So did I.'

He looked at the ceiling for a second. Then he said something that almost made me cry.

'I forgot what this felt like. That was a night. And with the rain sound?'

He wasn't talking about the bed.

We lay there until almost 9. Sharon made us coffee. We sat in her kitchen being polite. I was counting the minutes until I could get back into that guest room and look at the bedding.

Sharon left the kitchen to take a phone call. I told Bill I'd be right back.

I went into the guest room. Closed the door. Pulled the sheets up to my face and breathed them in. Ran the fabric between my fingers. Textured but impossibly soft. Lived-in but not worn out. The kind of fabric that gets better with every wash. I looked at how they fell across the bed — effortlessly rumpled, like a photo from a magazine but without anyone styling them.

I looked for a tag. Found one. Small company I'd never heard of. I took a photo of it.

Then I did something I never thought I'd do.

I went into Sharon's kitchen and asked my husband's ex wife about her bedding.

'Sharon, this is going to sound like the strangest question. But what sheets are on the guest bed?'

She smiled. Like she'd been waiting for someone to ask.

'My mother had linen sheets her entire life. Grew up with them. Heavy, soft, got better every single year. She slept on the same set for twenty years and they were like butter by the end. I spent years trying to find real ones after she passed. Nobody makes linen like that anymore. The big companies switched to blends decades ago because pure linen is expensive and takes forever to produce properly.'

She pointed toward the guest room.

'I found that small company about a year ago. They make it the old way. Pure European flax. Stone-washed. Small batches. 200 sets at a time. When they sell out you have to wait months for the next one.'

'That's the best I've slept in five years,' I said.

She looked at me. 'Menopause?'

'Menopause.'

'Me too. I was the same way. Up every two hours. Hot flashes. Couldn't stay asleep. Those sheets changed everything. Linen breathes like nothing else. It wicks the moisture away before you even feel it. When you're hot it cools you down. When you're cold it holds your warmth. I don't wake up drenched anymore. I don't kick them off. They just stay comfortable all night.'

Bill walked in. Looked at the two of us talking about bedding. Looked confused. Walked back out.

I drove home that morning and went straight to the website. Small site. No flashy anything. Photos of the sheets draped across beds — tossed on, unmade, beautifully rumpled without trying.

I found my size. King in natural flax. 4 left.

I thought about the restless nights. The distance from Bill. The hot, tangled sheets between us every night.

I thought about last night. Nine hours. His hand on my arm. His body against mine. I missed being the little spoon.

I ordered before it went out of stock. King in natural flax and their limited edition warm sand.

I got lucky. My sister told me later the natural flax sold out hours after I ordered. If I'd waited even a day I would've had to wait months.

My sister called while I was checking out. I told her the whole story. The flood. Sharon's house. The guest bed. Bill.

She was quiet for a second.

'Donna, are you telling me you and Bill... at his ex wife's house?'

'Linda. Focus. I'm trying to tell you about the sheets.'

'Oh I heard you. But I'm going to need you to go back to the part about —'

'LINDA.'

She laughed so hard she couldn't breathe.

Then she got serious. 'Send me the link.'

I sent it. She called me back in ten minutes.

'Sold out in king. Are you kidding me?'

'They only make 200 at a time.'

'You're on a first name basis with Sharon now?'

'She has good taste in bedding, Linda.'

'She had good taste in husbands too.'

I hung up on her.

The sheets came four days later.

I stripped our bed down to the mattress and put them on. Didn't smooth anything. Didn't tuck the top sheet tight. Let the linen fall however it wanted.

It draped across the bed like it had always been there. The natural flax color caught the afternoon light from the bedroom window. Rumpled and soft and perfect. It looked like it had been on our bed forever.

Bill came home from the hardware store. Walked past the bedroom. Stopped. Backed up.

'You really liked those sheets that much?'

'Bill, it was the first time we've been intimate in five years. Yes. I really liked those sheets that much.'

He turned red. Looked at the bed. Looked at me.

'Well. Good purchase then.'

That night. Same thing as Sharon's guest room. The cool linen against my skin. The breathability. I fell asleep at 10. Woke up at 5:45. Sheets still draped perfectly over me. Bill's arm tucked under my neck.

Second night. Same.

Third night. Hot flash at 2am. I pushed the sheet down to my waist. The linen cooled instantly against the air. My skin dried in seconds. I pulled the sheet back up a few minutes later and it was cool again. Fresh. I fell back asleep in minutes. That had never happened before. A 2am hot flash used to mean I was up until morning.

By the end of the first week, something was different.

I was sleeping. Deep sleep. Seven hours. Sometimes eight. The kind of sleep where you wake up and your body feels like it belongs to you again.

I had energy. I cleaned out the kitchen pantry on a Wednesday for no reason. I put fresh flowers on the table. I started going for morning walks. I called friends I hadn't called in months.

Bill noticed. He didn't say much. But he started coming on the morning walks. He started staying up later to watch movies with me instead of going to bed first. He started sitting closer on the couch.

One morning I was making coffee and he walked into the kitchen and said 'you look really good today.'

Not the usual compliment on the way out the door. He stopped walking. He was looking at me. Admiring like he did in our 20s.

I almost dropped the coffee pot.

I didn't do anything different. I didn't lose weight. I didn't change my hair. I didn't buy new clothes.

I just slept. And when I slept, the spark came back. The energy. The desire to do things.

Whatever it is that leaves your face when you've been running on nothing for years — it came back.

I told my friend Maureen about it at lunch. All of it. The flood. Sharon's house. The sheets. Bill. The sleeping. Everything.

Three other women were at the table. Every single one of them was leaning in.

'I haven't slept through the night since I was 49,' one of them said.

'I've spent hundreds on bedding. Thousands maybe. Nothing works,' said another.

'My husband and I haven't...' She stopped. Looked at the table. 'It's been a while.'

Every woman at that table was nodding.

Maureen said 'send me the link right now.'

I sent it. She looked at her phone.

'Donna. It says sold out in king.'

'They only make 200 at a time. You have to wait for the next batch.'

'How long?'

'Couple months. And my sister said the price goes up after spring. The flax costs keep rising because it takes three times the raw material of regular cotton sheets and months of stone-washing to get them this soft.'

Every woman at that table pulled out her phone.

'What's it called?'

'What sizes do they have?'

One of them got the last king in natural flax. She held her phone up like she'd won something.

The other three got on the waitlist.

Maureen looked at me. 'I can't believe your husband's ex wife is the reason I'm buying sheets right now.'

I think about that night at Sharon's house a lot.

The flood. The guest room. The cool linen against my skin. Bill's hand on my arm in the dark.

All those years I thought the problem was menopause. That my body was broken. That this is just what happens when you get older — you stop sleeping, you stop feeling like yourself, you stop being close to the person you love.

I wasn't broken. I was just exhausted. And I was exhausted because I'd been fighting my bed every single night for five years.

My mom slept like a rock until she was 80. She had linen sheets her entire life. She never fought with her bedding. She never woke up drenched and tangled. She and my dad were holding hands on the couch well into their 70s.

I spent five years lying under thin, synthetic sheets that trapped every degree of heat my body produced and turned my bed into a sauna every single night. Waking up drenched. Waking up freezing. Waking up alone on my side of the bed wondering where my marriage went.

Now I make the bed in the morning and the linen falls however it falls and it looks beautiful. Rumpled and lived-in and perfect. I get in at night and the cool fabric touches my skin and I'm out in ten minutes.

And last Sunday morning I woke up and Bill was already awake. Lying on his side. Looking at me.

'What?' I said.

'Nothing. You just look rested.'

I smiled. Pulled the sheet up. Moved closer to him.

We lay there for another hour. Not talking. Not checking our phones. Just two people who found their way back to the middle of the bed after five years on opposite sides.

My mom and dad used to do that. Sunday mornings. Coffee getting cold on the nightstand.

Nowhere to be.

I finally understand why.

Your move.

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