“Fear had changed my narrative. I was beginning to see what kindness might change.”
We all have an inner narrative.
We all have an inner narrative — the thoughts, words, and interpretations that tell us a story about the world and our place in it. We each bring our own history, so two people can experience the same moment and hear very different stories.
When you’re living with addiction, depression, or the effects of trauma, your narrative speaks through the fear you carry and the history you know. It tells you the scary parts of the story and often leaves out the grace — and because we hear it every day, it starts to feel like fact.
I notice it when I look in the mirror. My eyes go straight to the parts of my body I like the least. When I look into my own eyes, I see aging. I see time. It’s hard to see the whole person when that voice keeps directing me toward the things that make me uncomfortable.
What is your narrative leaving out?
I can walk through Union Square in New York City and see suffering everywhere. I can also see a beautiful day — dogs playing in the dog park, couples sitting close enough to touch, a stranger’s smile when I say hello.
All of this is happening at the same time. The suffering is real. So is the connection. Our narrative influences which parts hold our attention and what we believe they mean.
What am I noticing? What am I assuming? What else is here?
A practice that began with little Jake.
My interpretation of life wasn’t very good. My interpretation of myself was horrific. Then a man who would eventually become my family taught me a practice: imagine a five-year-old version of yourself — little Jake — and carry him with you throughout the day. Everything you say to yourself, you are saying to him.
I had bruises on my face. I was sick. I would look at myself and think, I’m disgusting. And then I would remember: little Jake is hearing this, too. I couldn’t look at that frightened, hurt little boy and tell him he was disgusting. So I had to use different words.
Putting action behind a thought.
A thought alone can stay a thought. For me, change needed something small and physical to do. So I put my right hand over my solar plexus, just below my breastbone, and rested it there — with the intention of offering care. I could feel the warmth and pressure of my own hand.
Imagine little Jake right there, beneath your hand. Everything you say to yourself, you are saying to him — and now there is a hand on him, too. That gesture made the kindness tangible. It put action behind the words, and it gave me a pause long enough to notice what I was saying to myself.
At first it felt goofy. I kept doing it anyway. I was practicing kindness before it felt natural.
Start by questioning “should.”
One word to notice is should. When we turn it against ourselves, it carries judgment, shame, and a sense that we’ve already failed. “I should have gone to the gym today” leaves no way out. “I wanted to go today. I didn’t. I can plan a time for tomorrow” leaves room for a next step.
I can. I want. I could. I will.
These words can open a possibility. The responsibility is still there. So is the opportunity to respond.
In my work
You deserve the kindness, too.
There were ways I spoke to myself that I would never speak to little Jake. There were ways I treated myself that I would never want him to learn.
What was it about me, here and now, that made me less deserving of that same love and kindness?
Fear had changed my narrative. I was beginning to see what kindness might change.
Read the full article.
The complete piece — in the words it was written in — includes the story behind the practice, the hands-on version you can try today, the words that carry power, a one-week experiment with “should,” and the clinical connections and research this practice overlaps with.
Read the full articleThese materials are educational and do not replace medical, psychiatric, or emergency care. If you or someone you love is in immediate danger, call 911; for an emotional crisis, call or text 988 any time.