The Stories We Tell Ourselves…
We are creatures of stories. We build them to understand ourselves, to make sense of the world, and to give shape to the complex and intangible. Narratives turn experience into something graspable. Whether we realize it or not, our existence is deeply woven into the stories we tell ourselves.
The Stories We Live By
Our minds are natural storytellers, constantly working to interpret what’s around us. Take something as simple as seeing a chair across the room. Instantly, without effort, we create a story about it—what it’s for, where it’s been, how it came to be. It’s a familiar object with a purpose, a past, and a place in our present moment. But what if that "chair" turns out to be something else entirely, just a shadow or illusion? What if the story we constructed was wrong from the start?
This is the risk we run with all stories. As much as they help us make sense of things, they also confine us to a particular interpretation. The stories we believe often feel like truth, but they are only one version of reality, one lens through which we see the world. We forget that they are simply tools—a way of organizing chaos into something we can comprehend. And as powerful as they are, they’re not always accurate.
The Role of Stories in How We See the World
Stories are the lens through which we experience life. Every interaction, every observation, is filtered through a story, whether we're aware of it or not. In doing so, however, we often reduce the complexity of the world into simple terms, to the point of distortion. Or at times our narratives don’t evolve and grow as we grow as individuals.
For example, we see someone cut us off in traffic and quickly assume they’re self-centered or careless, spinning a quick narrative of their motives. But we never really know their full story—what they’re going through, what forces are influencing their actions.
The conundrum is our mind craves certainty. We want to simplify things, label them, and place them neatly into categories so we can move forward without being overwhelmed by the endless pit of possibilities. That is anxiety-producing. Stories, therefore, provide that relief, but can also rob us of nuance.
The Power and Limitation of Stories
The stories we cling to shape our reality. They help us form judgments, find meaning, and make sense of the people and events around us. But they can also limit us, especially when we become too attached to them. We all been in a place where we can’t let go of a story—whether it’s a personal narrative about ourselves, a past trauma, or a worldview that paints things in stark black and white. It’s comforting to believe in a story that gives us clear answers. But life rarely fits into neat categories.
When we become too invested in a story, we can miss out on the subtleties of reality. The "bad guy" in the story may not be as evil as we think, just as the "hero" might be more flawed than we’d like to admit. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing stories that are convenient, emotionally satisfying, or familiar. But the truth is often messier, more ambiguous, and harder to pin down.
Rewriting Our Stories
The real challenge is learning when to let go of a story that no longer serves us or one that we have out-grown. To recognize when it’s time to rewrite the narrative or even step outside it altogether. This doesn’t mean we abandon the need for stories altogether—they’re a natural part of being human. But it does mean we can hold them more lightly, with the understanding that no story is the final word.
Sometimes, the stories we tell about ourselves are the most limiting. We carry ideas from our past that define who we are—"I’m not good enough," "That’s just my ADHD brain," "I can’t change." They become identities we live by. But what if they’re just stories we’ve outgrown? What if, instead of being trapped by our past, we confronted our freedom to create new narratives?
A World Beyond
There’s also the question of what lies beyond our stories. When we strip away the constant need to interpret, to explain, to label, what remains? We live most of our lives within stories, but when we try to take a pause, we might find moments where the world is just as it is, without the layers of narrative we impose on it.
In these moments, there’s a kind of awe-inducing freedom. We can see the world, and ourselves, with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of pre-constructed meaning. And when we return to our stories, as we inevitably will, we do so with a new perspective, a reminder that the story is not the thing itself, just a way of looking at it for a time.
Learning to Adapt
The key is flexibility. The ability to hold onto a story when it is congruent with who we are and let it go when it doesn’t. We don’t have to be rigid in our interpretations of the world or ourselves. We can adapt, allowing our stories to evolve with us, to grow as we grow, and to reflect the complexity and richness of our lived experiences.
Stories are powerful tools. They help us connect with others, give meaning to our experiences, and shape the course of our lives. But they are tools nonetheless—meant to be used, revised, and, when necessary, put aside. We are not bound by the stories we inherit or the ones we create.
In the end, the stories we hold dear reflect who we are and who we might become. They guide us, but they don’t define us. It’s up to us to decide which stories we want to live by—and which ones we’re ready to leave behind.
-ST