Humbly Human

Humiliation. Truth. Confidence. Humility.

(Reposted from Jackie's Substack Willable)

Today is 14 October 2025.

Last year, on 11 October 2025, I had the absolute best, worst night of my life. At the Avalon, in Fargo, North Dakota, for a Humanities North Dakota event, I emceed the “No Cure for Being Human,” Kate Bowler event.

For months, I longed for that evening with unbridled excitement! I couldn’t wait to see, hear, and meet my newest idol, Kate Bowler. The queen of “Limited Agency.” A living-with-chronic-health-and-uncertainty-been-through-it-academic-witty-queen.

And then when the night finally arrived, after I’d met Kate, swapped some stories, and took a few photos, I got to work on stage! And on my second pass to the mic, I tripped while jogging up the few stairs to get on stage. I literally went flying! (You can view it here.) In front of Kate and the head table I sat at. And a few hundred people in the crowd. And a few hundred online.

Save for the pause where I bent over and grabbed my knees and the queen herself hopped up on stage to make sure I was OK, I flipped my hair, and marched ahead. The show went on and it was a smashing success. But …

Outside of being tripped playing basketball (that actually landed me my second shoulder dislocation, no pun intended, when I was tripped and crashed down on my right shoulder a week before my twenty-first birthday), and being thrown in Taekwondo practice, I don’t recall any high profile tripping. Surely not on stage. On camera. In front of my hero. And hundreds.

I was mortified. And reasonably humiliated.

(Until two weeks later, when my counselor talked me off the ledge and encouraged me to see the humor. As always, thank God for Dr. Nev, or I’d probably still be raging and sputtering. I now laugh about it – along with those who repeatedly watched the video I shared. Although every now and then I suffer with a tinge of … WTF Jackie?!? Did you really do that?! …)

Dr. Nevland convinced me laugh about it and embrace the notion that Kate would never forget me, and a writing coach, named Anne, taught me about the pratfall effect. They were telling me that it made me endearing. But they were also reminding me of one of life’s greatest virtues and levelers … humility.

I mentioned to Dr. Nevland that I was quite sure I’d been repeatedly subjected to (thrashed over the head) life’s humility through autoimmune encephalitis, psychiatric ward, seizures, career loss, financial devastation, identity loss, chronic health, and much, much, more. Did I really need a miserable wipeout, too?

I don’t remember how she answered me, but I’m sure it was wise. And somewhere in the realm of: Life happens (Kate-esque); you’re resilient; responses matter; acceptance is key; keep it in perspective; famous stars fall all the time, you’re in good company; quit being Jackie, smile at yourself.

A few weeks ago, Kate published a beautiful piece on truth telling in personal narrative. Shouting out to the world, enough! All I have to share is my story! In all its gory details! Feedback and opinions be damned! Wherein you make your ultimate confession to your people, your God, and anyone listening: “I’m laid low.”

In the piece, she shared a wild excerpt from a letter Frida Kahlo wrote her husband, and how Kate “under duress,” wrote her NYT piece that lead to her ubiquitous memoir, “Everything Happens.” As an acolyte of Kate Bowler and Suleika Jaouad and after writing my own gory-detailed memoir, I was agreeably on board with the emphasis on truth in one’s story.

But when I got to these lines, I almost wept.

“There is a fine line between humbled and humiliated. But wow…you know when you’ve crossed it.

“Humility knocks the wind out of you, but it does so with a truth. Humiliation, on the other hand, strips you down with a lie.”

The curtains opened. The clouds parted. The delta closed.

Outside of dramatically oscillating between Everything’s Possible to Nothing’s Possible – Kate’s Venn diagram – to occupying that Space Between of “Limited Agency,” – this may be one of the biggest issues I’ve struggled with over the past seven point five years: Where’s my line?

Autoimmune encephalitis (AE) should include humiliation in its clinical diagnosis, medical treatment, and scientific definition. A quick recitation of my mortifying facts: Psychosis, loss of cognition, a fraught GI tract (which is formality for chronic diarrhea), seizures, loss of consciousness (which means a loss of bladder), firemen in my bedroom, after I’d thrown up all over my (braless) pajamas, struggling to be normal in front of my children and others, gaining almost thirty pounds (most in my face and distended stomach), growing facial hair, a hunched (and hairy) back, and going from $325/hour with $10.7 million dollar future as Jackie M. Stebbins, Esq., Stebbins Mulloy Law Firm, to $0/hour nobody who looked and felt like rubbish.

AE-infused humiliation tore me apart in its unrelenting onset and protracted wake.

I eventually moved away from that sudden loss of consciousness and cognition; from the long-lasting swollen face and body; and from hiding behind hats and sunglasses, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been so destroyed, I wasn’t deserving of my previous life’s ambition or respect. I fervently prayed for time’s distance to grant respite, healing, and regenerated confidence.

But the mental gymnastics twisted and turned me like Simone Biles off the vault. When was I supposed to cower and be voiceless, because of the desperate humiliation I’d faced? And just when was I allowed to be the vocal, assertive, intelligent-yet-humbled Jackie? Where was the line? Would I ever quit getting over and back violations?

Time and persistence really have been the great healers for me. I haven’t struggled as much with the delineation as of late, but reading Kate’s words really drove home the eternal feelings. And gave me a sense of pride over what has been an enduring and tenuous situation.

“When we feel ourselves not just humbled by what we’ve endured but humiliated by it, we find that we might have something to say.”

I did have something to say post-AE. And I wrote it with the conviction of a thousand brutally honest suns. Full of joy, mortification, accolades, desperation, humor, and terror, I tried to scream it all. And say, enough!

In hindsight, Unwillable (and the early days of the JM Stebbins blog and Brain Fever podcast) was born out of the quest to SuRvive, Recover, and Rebuild my life after-illness, but it was also a fucking megaphone for my humiliation. As I wrote, and wrote, and rewrote my drivel, and sobbed, and (nearly) set my laptop on fire, and shared and reshared my narrative, I was laying myself low. Only through sitting with the pain, the embarrassment, the shame, and the fear, could I move from the experience humiliating me, to humbling me.

Kate’s piece about speaking one’s truth, whether cathartic or not, was also yet another reminder of how writing saved my life. Telling, penning, and retelling my story was the elixir pushing me through the mark of devasting embarrassment to humbly human.

I still have my moments where I wonder if I’m being disrespected, overlooked, or pitied (oh to live in my head …), but overall, narrating my embarrassing experience delivered to me the necessary confidence for radical acceptance and to move away from the abyss.

In my early stages (with bad memoir titles like “The Lawyer Who Wasn’t Depressed”), I remember complaining to my mom that someone should (re)examine my head for wanting to PUBLISH all of my embarrassing-AE-garbage. She was quick to remind me of all the good I also shared in the book: Prominent friends and allies, leading our firm to grossing over a million dollars in its infancy, and awards and distinguished honors. Diarrhea, the psych ward, and a less that flattering first-seizure-impression upon firemen in my bedroom didn’t steal the phone calls from concerned friends, like United States Senators Heidi Heitkamp and Byron Dorgan. Or meal trains from neighbors. And financial donations from strangers. (Damn you Elton for not answering my letter!)

The truth is, AE humiliated me. The truth also is, AE humbled me. But I knew then and I know now that people can smell alternative facts and inauthenticity a mile away. Humility is truth telling when it paints you in an unflattering light. It’s laying yourself low in hopes of someone, somewhere benefitting from your struggles and lessons.

And the beauty is that in writing and speaking my truth, embarrassment and accolades alike, Unwillable: A Journey to Reclaim My Brain, is a story worth telling.

(Or as Katie Couric’s husband put it at the end of her lovely and captivating memoir, “If you’re not going to tell the truth, don’t write a book!” Touché.)

As for my disastrous fall in front of Kate Bowler, well, thank God I didn’t break an osteoporosis bone or dislocate another shoulder. And while I remain slightly mortified about it, it’s a story that draws a grin, and maybe, just maybe, offers a glimpse into my chronic human condition.

Sharing your truth through humiliation and embarrassment to reclaim your confidence and walk humbly through your life is Willable. Pass it on.

Luv, jackie

__________

/ / The JM Stebbins blog is an autoimmune encephalitis blog from former lawyer and autoimmune encephalitis survivor, Jackie M. Stebbins.

Jackie M. Stebbins is also the author of Unwillable: A Journey to Reclaim my Brain, a book about autoimmune encephalitis, resilience, hope, and survival. //

-- If you like Jackie, Elton John, or that Jackie loves Elton John, but mostly if you appreciate Jackie's writing, you can BUY HER A COFFEE here. --

  Make sure you're following Jackie on Substack @jmstebbins