The Stories That Sneak In
I grew up poor. Not the kind of poor we probably immediately think of, but the kind of poor where you didn't ask for new shoes, because you knew the answer. The kind where "what's for dinner?" was mostly about what we had, not what we wanted. My dad carried a lot, more than any one person should. After losing several close family members in a short period, he volunteered to serve in Vietnam. He came back with what we now understand was untreated PTSD, but back then, we just called it anger. Or silence. Or unpredictability. We didn't have language for trauma, we just had to live with the aftershocks.
Over the years since, I've "done the work". I've found healing. I've found forgiveness, for my dad and for myself. I've grown past a lot of those early stories. But even now, decades later, those stories still show up. Sometimes it's subtle, like bracing for disappointment before I even give something a chance. Sometimes it's the feeling that I have to earn love or prove my worth before I can belong. Most days, I can catch it before it spills into my relationships or my decisions. But some days, I don't. Some days, the story sneaks in, rewrites the script in my head, and I realize too late that I've been operating from a place I thought I'd outgrown.
Anyone know what I'm talking about?
I'm sure you do....
That's why this week's reflection is about the stories that limit us. The ones we didn't consciously choose but somehow ended up living by. Psychologists call them core beliefs. They're quiet, persistent, and often rooted in childhood. Stories like:
"I'm too much."
"I'll always be the outsider."
"I have to stay small to stay safe."
Spiritual traditions know this stuff, too. In Christianity, Jesus is constantly asking people to name the scripts they're living by: "Do you want to be made well?" isn't just about physical healing, it's an invitation to leave behind the story of powerlessness. In Buddhism, we're encouraged to examine the lens through which we see ourselves, to recognize when we're being driven by illusion or fear. And in Islam, there's a beautiful emphasis on God's mercy and our ability to grow beyond our past, on the idea that your story isn't over, and it's not too late to tell a new one.
So here's the invitation this week: Think about one story you've told yourself for years. Especially one that feels heavy, or limiting, or just… outdated. Write it down. Say it out loud. And then ask yourself:
Where did this come from?
Did it serve me at one point?
Does it still?
What might a new version of this story sound like?
We don't get to choose every story we inherit. But we do get to choose what we carry forward, and how we have it. Oh...and if you feel up to the challenge...share that with someone you trust. Perhaps they will shares there as well. We also get to choose who we carry it with.
Still weaving...even when the threads surprise me,
Sam