Eulogy for Old Stories

I have one big thought for you today:

Your feelings are sensations in the body first before they are stories in your head. And those stories aren’t always helpful.

I have been thinking about this so much lately in this stage of parenting, as I watch my kids construct meaning out of some tricky adolescent problems. Homework pressure, early morning grumpiness, getting teased at school, etc.

As I’m squarely in teenager land, I see the stories coming from these painful experiences as wilder than ever, fueled by their sensitivity and colorful imaginations, combined with the felt sense of shame and fear that they, like all of us, aren’t immune to.

I see this with my creative clients too.

The pain, the triggers, the emotions—they are all first bodily sensations. Heart rate increases, tension in the stomach and throat, heaviness in the chest and limbs. And then after those, the narration. 

Your body is basically a memory machine, with a million buttons for activation, all based on the things you’ve gone through. Your body reacts to the world around you based on what it remembers, what it’s protecting you from, and what it’s seeking. Then, after that happens, your brain tries to discern what’s going on by guessing which old story matches the flavor of those particular body sensations.

This is why talk therapy has its limits. Working at the level of story can be helpful, but if you struggle with chronic anxiety or high sensitivity, it can become a bit of a game of whack-a-mole. You “solve” one story, and another one pops up.

Because we haven’t addressed the felt sensations in your body underneath.

I recently had a challenging experience come up and ended up crying in front of a friend about it. He asked me later if I remembered crying about the same exact story last September. It made me laugh because I did, in fact, feel the same way last September, and the same old story felt just as true in the moment as it did then. Although, as soon as I shifted out of it, it was most definitely not true. Silly, even.

I know now, with myself and with my kids, that believing their stories are true is a form of abandonment. If I believe my kids’ story about why they feel lonely or scared, I’m not an anchor of safety for them, helping them out of that ditch.

But if I ignore their story and tell them they are being ridiculous, I’m not being with them and honoring their experience as I help them out of it.

I have been shedding so many old stories lately. Old interpretations of memories that are just not true, either not anymore, or maybe they never were.

If you have old pain and fear stories about yourself or your future, see if these stories from my clients and friends sound anything like yours:

I’m so behind in life.

I can’t manage my pain or my fear.

I’ll never become anyone important.

I’ll never fulfill my dreams.

Maybe God is not good, or He’s just not good to me.

No one really knows me, likes me, or cares about me.

I’ll never find a partner.

People always leave.

There’s not enough money, support, or resources for me to heal and create and step into my purpose.

There are too many people doing what I want to do. There’s not enough space for me to be successful.

I’m bad at relationships.

Or mine:

I can’t be fully in love with motherhood and fully pursue my art and business. (the truth is so gloriously the opposite.)

At one point, these lies really made sense of things. They gave you a temporary, although unhelpful, sense of understanding around the fear-filled feelings, tension, and even growing pains in your body. But if you’re feeling the way I am, maybe we can let them go. 

See if you can identify your own fear/shame stories, and let’s say goodbye together:

Here lie the stories that I made up when I was afraid, alone, scared, and in despair.

They were born when no other stories were available, and in their own way, they helped me make sense of things.

They helped me stay small so I would stay safe.

They tried to keep me acceptable, careful, and ready for more pain if it came.

When belonging felt fragile, they were there, leading me to numb and even, sometimes, leading me to reach out for help.

I recognize these stories as deeply protective, even though they are not helpful to who I am becoming.

I am ready to become.

And that means it’s time to say goodbye to the stories.

The truth is, I am okay now, even in my imperfection.

I am deserving of every good thing.

I am held.

I am supported and loved.

Old stories, I do not need you or your protection.

These stories do not need to be defeated. They do not need to be disproven forever.

They simply no longer get to narrate my life.

May they rest.

And may the woman who survived by believing them discover what happens when she no longer has to.

Thank you, and goodbye.

Who you truly are is what the best stories say about you.

Love,
Courtney