Stories Are Powerful: Be Careful
by Anne Marie Vivienne
“Our minds are wired to create order, a cohesive narrative, and our stories are our anchors. They tell us who we are, what matters most, and what we’re capable of, what our lives are all about.
Something happens to us in childhood––say, a dog bites us––and suddenly we have a story. We become terrified of all dogs, and for years afterward, we break into a sweat whenever a dog comes close. If we pay attention, one day we realize we’ve spun a story in our minds about an entire species based on a single incident with a single animal––and that our story is not really true.”
Everyone knows the deep power of a story: writers, marketers, our BFFs, grandpa who hasn’t spoken with a live person in six days (someone pick up the phone and call him!), and our brains. We grasp onto our stories with hope, sorrow, judgement, expectation, and lifelong beliefs with all our biological energy. Storytelling has even made its way into trendy job descriptions––because interesting stories are valuable. I often hear people describing their profession as some version of “storyteller”: visual storyteller, storyteller-in-chief, story guru, story architect, and, my personal favorite, story chef (because food + stories = human kryptonite).
Stories are flooding our lives while we drown in personal, local, national, and global information. Everyone is telling us a story. And we get sucked in. We’re experiencing more depression and anxiety. Why? Perhaps we’ve been swept up into the drama of all these stories, and yet, our lives are still really quite ordinary––we go to work, we try to love our families, and show up for our friends. We have perceptions that everyone is working harder, suffering more, and having a perfect life all at the same time. We want to convince ourselves that our lives are just as exciting, just as important, just as meaningful––even if it includes a little (or a lot) of drama.
Our Lives Are Ordinary
Unless we're living in a worn-torn country, victims of violence, or living in poverty while barely getting by––a lot of us in the U.S. have pretty ordinary lives. We’re afraid that a quiet and ordinary life isn’t interesting enough. Maybe we're embarassed by it. We are afraid that to be ordinary is to lose someone's attention, lose our friends because we don’t have a drama of busy, overwhelm, brokenness, or flaws. What if the story we told is simply, “I’m enough. I’m grateful to be here, with you, on this beautiful earth?” What if we remembered that when life is truly full of suffering, all we really want is ordinary?
Is it enough to be one single note, that subtly modulates and changes because of the other notes it come into resonance, into harmony with another? Is it enough to have so much space for gratitude and love and ease? We are taught to be heroes and heroines: conquering, overcoming, learning, earning. But what if being in flow is about getting quiet enough so that we know when to step into the river and when to get out—our story is simple: here I am, ready to love and be loved.
When emotions are surrounded in stillness and quiet, even fear, anger, grief, and loneliness are bearable. We can accept how natural it is to be human—we understand that discomfort will leave us, and most likely come back at another time. When we attach story to our emotions, we give ourselves an impossible journey—there will be no one to blame or save us—we will find we never had to take a journey, or have a story to tell to prove our bravery and merit. We will find that we are already enough—our story is simply a willingness to be present: to witness suffering; to be in awe of beauty.
“How do you make a book that anyone will read out of lives as quiet as these? Where are the things that novelists seize upon and readers expect? Where is the high life, the conspicuous waste, the violence, the kinky sex, the death wish? Where are the suburban infidelities, the promiscuities, the convulsive divorces, the alcohol, the drugs, the lost weekends? Where are the hatreds, the political ambitions, the lust for power? Where are speed, noise, ugliness, everything that makes us who we are and makes us recognize ourselves in fiction?”
The Pleasure of a Juicy Story
“It is important to understand that there is nothing wrong with experiencing pleasure...Pleasure is not a problem. We run into trouble when we become attached to the pleasure and to people and things that bring it. It’s the attachment, not the pleasure itself, that leads us to lie to get what we want...So the trick is to experience the pleasure without clinging to it, being depressed when it’s gone, or trying to recreate it later.”
There’s a reason we like to hear and tell a “juicy” story—it’s indulgent and delicious. We become more and more addicted to a sugary, salty, fatty story the more we tell and listen to only the exciting stories. If we learn to enjoy simple foods on a day to day basis, we can truly enjoy a more intricate meal when it’s time to celebrate. Likewise, if we can refrain from the indulgence of analyzing all the story details, we will learn to embrace the mundane ordinary rhythms of our lives. When we really truly have a story to tell or listen to, we will feel every inch of humanity, beauty, and sorrow in it—we will have the energy of heart and mind to fully understand without being overwhelmed to depression or anxiety.
What stories are we using our energy to ingest and digest? If Michael Pollan advises all humans to “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly Plants” then maybe we, as natural born storytellers, would do well to “Observe generously. Tell it simple. Embrace the human experience.”
How much processing are you putting your story through? Keep the ingredients simple and pure and whole. If you were often abandoned as a child or over-criticized, tell that story with as much generosity and love that you can muster. As an adult, how can you tell that story with so much love for yourself while trying to understand that your parents and siblings were doing their best? How does that feel to tell it stripped of all the years of fear and anger? It’s a tough story to swallow, but you won’t have a hangover or sugar crash from inserting all those emotional additives and judgements.
Beware the Single Perspective
“The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes, is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”
At every moment in our lives, there are an infinite amount of possible ways to explain what is going on from endless points of view. Before we believe that our initial perspective is the only way to tell the story, we might find out that we’re making decisions based off of very limited data. In her book Rising Strong, Brene Brown uses an argument she had with her husband at a lake as an example on how to work out the tell stories we tell ourselves stories and the consequences of those stories. She first interprets her husband’s emotional distance as judgment and disappointment towards her. Rather than shutting down, she decides to confront him, and she begins with:
“I’m telling myself the story that…” and then she tells him what she’s feeling about his emotional distance.
As she reviewed her feelings of anger, betrayal, fear and confusion about her husband’s lack of connection she noted:
“I then started wrestling with the payback story. I hate that ending of Steve getting his, but it’s the one I do best when I’m hurt. The only way I could possibly change the ending was to tell a different story, one where Steve’s intentions were not bad. I bombarded myself with questions while I was swimming: Could I be that generous? Do I have a part in this? Can I trust him? Do I trust myself? What’s the most generous assumption that I can make about his response while still acknowledging my own feelings and needs?”
When we find ourselves making assumptions and telling stories, are we telling the single story? An old story that comes from a place of old wounds, old insecurities, past experiences, or fears of the future? How can you tell a different story? If we live a life always questioning if people are trying their best and really do love us, then our stories will reflect this. Our stories lay the foundation for our reality––we can believe one version, our single wounded story, or the whole version, the most true story where no one is out to hurt us.
Give the people you love and care about dignity by working through your first version of the story, and including them in the story you are writing together:
“The consequence of the single story is this: it robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar.”
The Intention of a Story: to connect or cover up?
When we perceive that we’ve been rejected or betrayed, it feels really good to justify our tears––after all, there’s good reason we’re crying, right? We’re no babies! And, yet, we’re tender. We’re soft. We misunderstand. We’re confused. Our neural pathways that were set down way back in childhood years are firing even though we’ve cognitively learned a thing or two since 5th grade when our teacher read our paper aloud to the entire class as an example of “bad” writing.
So we tell our friends, family, colleagues, and ourselves stories to cover up our hurt––these turn into stories of blame and victimhood: so-and-so is always late which means she doesn’t really care about the project; so-and-so rarely speaks up so he must think we’re totally crazy and that he’s better than us; so-and-so always turns down my invitations so she must really dislike me, etc. These are the stories we tell. We’re being so honest about it, aren’t we?
Are we?
The story that really fosters connection (the whole reason we tell stories) might look something like this:
• “So-and-so is often late for our meetings about this project. Should I ask him if there’s a better time because we really want him here so we can include his opinions in our final reports. I get anxious about starting on time without everyone in the room because I want this to truly be a collaborative process.” You could then ask yourself why you get anxious about people being late to meetings and if you’re making any assumptions about a person’s story.
• “So-and-so has yet to accept an invitation from me, but I’ll keep asking her because I want her to feel included. I’ll ask her if there’s a better time and place to meet one of these days. She must be very busy. Maybe a small conversation here and there is sufficient until her schedule changes.”
Stories that connect are generous in their assumptions. Cover up stories usually lead to anxiety, fear, judgement, and misunderstanding. Our brains recognize the pain of social rejection as the same as any physical pain we would feel from a broken arm, a headache, or a serious illness. What if we are our own emotional healers, and it’s as simple as retelling the story––what if no one is rejecting us? What if people want to love us, but don’t know how? What if they meant to invite you, but they thought you wouldn’t enjoy it? If you can take a few deep breaths, and give people the benefit of the doubt that they’re trying their best, you can quickly heal the pain of perceived rejection.
You Don't Have to Believe Everything You Think
Our brains are really good at thinking––we get an idea, and before you know, we're deep down in the rabbit hole...chasing what? A reason? An answer? Why did this happen? Who triggered me and why? And so our story begins. "I'm feeling alone and betrayed" can quickly turn into an inner critic playground ("Why can't you keep it together? When are you going to learn?") or a blame extravaganza ("If only my parents would have been better parents" or "Why can't she remember that this is really important to me?").
We're hardwired to hold on to negative emotions and thoughts more than our positive and generous thoughts. In the early days of being human, survival was everything. We had to be alert to danger. For many of us in our daily lives, we're not running from predators and attackers––but our brains are still over-vigilant to perceived threats. Perceived. And then we ruminate on these perceived threats: my co-worker wants my job; my sister will take all the credit, and I'll be left out; my boss seems more distant so he must be getting ready to fire me; my girlfriend keeps asking for space so she must not love me anymore, etc. All of these are the stories we tell ourselves to protect ourselves from feeling like a fool or falling into some kind of trap. We end up telling ourselves: "I'll quit before they fire me," "I'll leave her before she leaves me," "I'm not going to the family party because who cares anyway." We made up a story that we're getting fired, she's leaving me, and nobody cares. More often than not, we're wrong.
Stop the Rumination
In her book Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself, Dr. Kristin Neff explains,
“Rumination is often fueled by feelings of fear, shame, and inadequacy. Because self-compassion directly counters these insecurities, it can help unravel the knot of negative rumination as surely as detangling spray.
When we hold negative thoughts and feelings in nonjudgmental awareness, we are able to pay attention to them without getting stuck like Velcro. Mindfulness allows us to see that our negative thoughts and emotions are just that––thoughts and emotions––not necessarily reality. They are therefore given less weight––they are observed, but not necessarily believed.””
When we tell stories with full involvement rather than observation to our thoughts and emotions, we get sucked into the spinning rumination that creates the drama that's hard to resist. It's hard to resist telling it with such gusto, and it's hard to resist listening. We're all prone to the guilty pleasures of our own soap operas. Step out of the grip of attachment, and practice observing your emotions and thoughts. You might lose a big chunk of your audience when you leave out the juicy bits, but your audience will more likely be your cheerleaders and shoulders to cry on rather than an audience who's waiting for your next fall.
Why Kids Are the Best Storytellers
What if we returned to that period in childhood when we assumed that everybody loved us and wanted us in the room? What if we returned to earlier days when the questions and answers were simple, direct, honest?
Tell me where it hurts? What is so funny? Did you think I left you? I didn’t even know that if I left the room it would upset you—I’m sorry. I understand. But I can’t always be in the room—trust me that I’ll come back, and if there’s an emergency and you really need me, I’ll be here.
As adults, we continue to make up stories about others’ intentions. Before we even think to ask the person why they did what they did or said what they said, we’ve launched a full internal publication illustrating, outlining, and analyzing a situation based on assumptions.
The sooner we face the hurt and the person involved, the more accurate (and probably less juicy) our story will be. Accuracy and observation are far less likely to get us the spotlight of sympathy or the indulgence of righteousness we were seeking. “See! She’s crazy!” is an album we like to play on repeat—it gets our blood pumping. On the other hand, the “It felt like a personal attack, a threat to my freedom, but I took a deep breath and realized we’re all doing our best” is an album that plays once, and then our audience is likely to sweetly smile and walk away. It’s hard to give up an audience. We feel like we’re being seen, but, in the end, it’s all an act.
What kind of audience are we looking for? An audience that sees us as victims who are lost in this big ol’ world, or an audience that sees us again and again working through hurdles of misunderstanding with compassion and generosity for ourselves and others?
“Ultimately, we’re the only ones who can take a familiar story, one that is encoded in our bodies and minds, and turn it around.”
No, you will not be hoodwinked and bamboozled for trusting that most people are doing their best. You will be free of a story that was never true.
Write Poetry, Not a Novel
When telling a story, think poetry. It takes time to think about each word and the rhythm it creates. Every syllable matters. Take time before you launch into a story. Think about it. Ask questions. The best poems leave you with the awe of more questions, more possibilities within an infinite human experience. The best stories aren’t tied up in a nice little bow, but leave you wishing the characters had more time to grow and to love. None of our stories have ended yet. Keep them open-ended. Keep asking questions. Keep growing.
Be succinct. And you might find the audience you really need. Because the shorter amount of time you spend talking and spinning your wheels, leaves you more time for love and gratitude.
House Rules: On Storytelling
“If I look at what’s happening through the eyes of love, how would I tell this story?”
Storytelling is about connecting compassionately––to share with others the reality of being human, the emotions we experience, and the ways we navigate our lives. Nourish the stories that are simple and ordinary. This life is full of suffering and wonder. Be careful. And re-write often.