I’ve always loved a good story. Since I was little, I’ve been fascinated with learning more about people’s stories and lives. I think it's mostly because of my endless curiosity about humans and how we all experience the world differently. And how we become who we are.
Also, I’m Gen X, and was raised in LA during the notorious serial killer days. We didn’t have all the social media noise–just newspapers and the evening news.
I vividly remember Richard Ramirez, known as the night stalker, going on a killing spree and being endlessly fascinated (and terrified) by it. I mostly just couldn’t wrap my head around how someone could be so inhumane and commit such heinous acts. Like, what on earth led to this man doing this? And how did he not get caught for so long?
Stories not only made me feel like I could better understand the people around me, they also helped me make sense of the world. And perhaps stories gave me a false sense of control.
What I didn’t realize until much later is how much of my life was shaped by the stories I inherited and the ones I’d learned. Stories I picked up from family, society, and friends had completely dictated my life’s path.
Once I really understood the effects of my stories after years of therapy, it was such a relief because now I had agency over which stories were mine to keep and which ones I could let go of.
We live in stories. The ones we inherit and the ones we learn or earn.
And in order to question our stories, something must evoke an emotion so strong we can’t ignore it. Maybe it’s a performance that moves us, a conversation, a line in a book, or an unwanted space that actually gives us time to think and feel on a deeper level.
Or a corrective experience with a mentor, therapist, or loved one that challenges our stories.
And that’s where hope lives because experience, memory, and purpose are a part of the stories we tell ourselves.
So it’s important that we tell ourselves the right ones.