Many of us believe there are damn good reasons why we are the way we are or why we do the things we do. The elaborate stories we so thoroughly craft about why we behave in certain ways or why things turned out the way they did are such an integral part of our thinking process that we hardly notice they exist at all. As a matter of fact, many live their entire lives under the premise that the stories they tell about who they are are synonymous with their identity.

We repeatedly weave narratives like:

  • “This happened to me, then that happened, and because of all this, I am who I am.”

  • “I am the kind of person who never does X.”

  • “Things never go my way in these matters anyway; it’s better if I don’t try.”

  • “If only I had X, then I would be able to finally get Y.”

We make it a habit to listen to these often complex narratives and act upon them as if they are the gospel truth. And why wouldn’t we? It certainly feels like they are true.

The truth is that the stories we constantly tell and retell about life are rarely ever true. It’s the habit of believing those stories that creates a version of ourselves in which they are.

And when we tell and listen to the same old story over and over again, it ends up becoming something we believe in. Beliefs create repeated behaviors, which ultimately become our actual lives.

For example, someone who has impostor syndrome and believes they are underqualified or lacking the knowledge for a certain job they want will spend much of their precious time acquiring qualifications and taking courses instead of actually applying for the job they want and gaining experience. Even if they are perfectly qualified, the belief they are not will direct their behaviors and create a life of someone who isn’t.

Here is why I’m telling you this: as long as you remain unaware of your inner stories and see the power they have over you, you’ll just keep being led by them and call it “fate.” And the opposite is also true—once you witness these stories and learn to separate yourself from them, you’ll break free from the grasp they have over you and gain much-needed agency over your life.

You’ll retain the power to change things for the better, under almost every circumstance.

Here’s the kicker: The elaborate explanations you spent your entire life crafting about why you are the way you are—your childhood traumas, the pivoting intersections in your life, your big “AHA!” moments—aren’t what made you who you are. They are only things that happened to you in the past, and under their effect you compiled a narrative about yourself or the world.

The truth is that your experiences aren’t really who you are—you just believe they are. Who you are is something entirely different from anything that happened to you. And it’s the story about an experience that made it feel like it is a part of who you are.

What I would invite you to see in this short piece is how easily you’re probably falling prey to the power of such stories and how you can set yourself free from even the major ones you believe define you.

What happened to you wasn’t ok, and that’s ok

As a child, I lived through events I would never wish on anyone. My father’s rage was violent and unpredictable.

When I think about the things I’ve been through as a child, it’s impossible to remain ambivalent to the emotions that come up with the memories.

When my father lashed out in violence at me, beat me, or yelled at me, I didn’t know how to protect myself. Being the terrified little boy I was, I can still remember the thought of, “ This is it. I might die right now.”

Naturally, these memories and the emotions associated with them had an effect on me growing up. I spent years weaving narratives, brooding, and blaming my violent childhood for my faults. Here are some of the narratives I made a habit of telling myself:

  • “If only I had a better father, I would have had a better stepping stone to life.”

  • “If only I wasn’t so messed up, I would have gone to school earlier and made something out of myself.”

  • “It makes sense that my relationships are broken—I come from a broken home.”

I repeated these stories and many others in my head for years. They felt right and just because they made logical sense: if I was screwed in the past, then my life is screwed now. Makes sense.

I had a damn good reason why I was working temp jobs, failing all my relationships, and why even a simple parking ticket was considered a major expense. None of it was my fault. It was fate.

Due to the intensity of emotions associated with the memories, it never crossed my mind to doubt their truth, and as such, my behaviors matched:

Because I believed that “I suck at relationships," I subconsciously sabotaged every relationship I had and let them go to shambles instead of working on them through effective communication.

Because I believed “I had no chance in life,” I never bothered to invest effort in anything meaningful like a career or education and spent my time and money on momentary satisfaction.

The narratives I told myself about what happened to me, along with the emotions associated with them, were so powerful that they created an illusion that I’m choiceless in the matter of what happens next.

I now know that behaving as if the stories were true was a subconscious attempt to avoid taking responsibility for my life.

In many ways, taking responsibility for my life felt like I was disregarding all the bad stuff that happened to me, that my abusers received a “free pass.” And that didn’t feel just.

But I’ve come to understand something else:

While all those things that happened to me weren’t ok, and all my emotions about them were totally valid, it’s the stories I crafted and conclusions I derived that orchestrated my behavior and created my life. Not my father, not my childhood traumas I was responsible, and as long as I put the responsibility on someone or something that happened to me, I was powerless.

Emotions are not always true, but they are always compelling

People often approach life as a series of cause-and-effect events:

  • “My dad hurt me when I was little. That’s why I have trust issues.”

  • “My mother ignored me. That’s why I don’t believe I deserve love.”

  • “They bullied me. That’s why I isolate myself now.”

These stories feel like absolute truths because they come wrapped in the intense emotion you felt at the time of experiencing them. And so the story isn’t just a sequence of events—it carries the weight of fear, shame, grief, or rage, which was true at the time of experience. That’s why it feels true now, just like it felt true at the time.

But feeling something doesn’t always make it objectively real. It makes it subjective, so.

Let me be clear: I’m not here to invalidate your pain. Quite the opposite. I’m here to show you the nature of it and point you toward its potential for transformation.

Let's establish the difference between the story you have about yourself and who you are: When an event has been experienced, there has always been someone experiencing it, reacting to it, making conclusions about it, etc.

The event and its emotional context—the object—are different from the experiencer of it—the subject.

Think of it like this: imagine you're in a cinema, watching a movie.

There are two ways to engage; one is to get swept up entirely—you forget you're sitting in a chair, watching a screen, surrounded by popcorn-chewing strangers. The other is being aware that this is a film; you watch while commenting mentally on the costumes or makeup, you make mental notes about the acting, the lighting, the dialogue... You can even reflect on the message behind the movie mid-scene and decide whether you approve or not.

This is the difference between being in the story and being with the story.

When you’re in it, you take everything about it as an undeniable truth—just like when you’re enamored with a film. You are the victim, the hero, the betrayed, the broken. You argue with people in your head. You prepare defenses. You spiral. You’re choiceless. You suffer.

When you’re with it, you gain clarity because you’re able to critically think about what’s happening. You're no longer helpless and reactive to the happening of things but are a proactive agent with power amongst events.

The power is in the present, not in the past

The past is not your enemy. It is a teacher. But the lesson only arrives when you stop arguing with it. In other words, as long as you’re in the endless loop of recycled stories, your future is set in stone. There is no flexibility in the past.

Breaking that vicious cycle involves being aware of your ability to choose differently every time.

I’m not saying that you need to ignore the feelings associated with the story or simply “slide it off.” I’m only suggesting that you remember.

Remember that the story you have about yourself has a mysterious power over you. Just like you remember, you’re watching a movie.

As tricky as it may be.

I remember a chat I had with my mother, trying to resolve a family feud between her and her siblings. I sat there for 30 minutes as she shared with me her entire life story for the I-don't-know-how-many-times. Every “he said, she said” carried the weight of decades-long resentment and anger that had been building up in her heart. I could feel how real it all was to her.

Even as I gently tried to steer her into the present—to remind her that she is no longer powerless, that she has a choice about things NOW—she kept circling back to the story. Every time we tried to lift off, she’d return to the pain points of “But then he did this,” “But she always hated me,” “But they never helped,” and “But I always tried.”

Spoiler alert: We got nowhere.

This is not a fault of hers. It’s simply how the mind works. And it’s a trap. The only way for her, or anyone lost in their life story, to break free of the narratives is to see them for what they are—narratives—and separate them from the ability to take action now.

Your story is real, yes. But it is also over. What happens next is up to you.

What turned things around for me was when I realized that what happened to me indeed happened, and it truly sucked. But nevertheless, nothing that happened can impose what I can or cannot do about my life.

And choosing to take action despite my story is taking control over my life instead of giving control to the part of me that was (and maybe still is) hurt, scared, afraid, or abused.

I realized that what makes me who I am isn’t the totality of what happened to me in the past—it’s the decisions I make every single day.

It’s the emotions I feel and the actions I choose to take while acknowledging what happened with compassion.

It’s choosing the story I’m about to write. In every moment.