The Story We Tell Ourselves

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, you may find yourself on guard before you’ve even understood what you’re feeling. 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.

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.

Throughout the day, we interpret how somebody looks at us, the tone they use, and what it means when they don’t respond. Sometimes we have good information. Sometimes our history fills in the blanks before we have a chance to ask.

I can walk through Union Square in New York City and see people experiencing homelessness, people who look angry or closed off, drugs, and paraphernalia.

I can also see a beautiful day. Dogs playing in the dog park. The happiness on somebody’s face as they bring their best friend through the gate, knowing they’re about to give that dog something good.

I can see couples sitting on benches, close enough to touch. Sometimes kissing. Often laughing. If I look up and meet somebody’s eyes, I might catch a smile. If I’m brave enough to say hello, I often get a smile and a hello back.

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.

We don’t always choose the first story that comes into our heads. But we can begin to ask: What am I noticing? What am I assuming? What else is here?

When I was younger, I carried a lot of trauma. I had experienced violence and abuse from what felt like nearly everybody I knew. Then I got into drugs, and my narrative changed even more.

My interpretation of life wasn’t very good. My interpretation of myself was horrific.

I couldn’t see anything good about me. I couldn’t look in the mirror. I didn’t want to be alone inside my own head. I believed I had nothing worth giving to anybody else.

A man who would eventually become my family taught me a practice. He asked me to imagine a five-year-old version of myself — little Jake — and carry him with me throughout the day.

Everything I did, he did. Everything I saw, he saw. And everything I said to myself, I was saying to him.

That’s when I started to understand how cruel I was being to myself.

I would have done everything in the world to help that little boy. He was already traumatized. Already afraid. Already confused.

I would have told him to believe in himself. I would have told him, “No matter how many times you get knocked down, get up. There’s always hope. There’s love. Sometimes you have to work really hard to find it, but it’s there.”

I would have told him, “No matter what happens, I will always be here for you.”

Then I would go through my day and hear the familiar voice.

People don’t like me. People think I’m stupid.

I had bruises on my face. My body was beaten up. 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. I couldn’t tell him he had nothing worth giving.

So I had to use different words.

Prayer can matter. Meditation can matter. A decision can be a beginning. For me, change also needed to reach into what I actually did throughout the day.

This practice gave me something small and physical to do: put my hand against my body with the intention of offering care. Feel the warmth and pressure of my own hand. Stop long enough to notice what I was saying to myself.

Perhaps you have someone who touches you with love every day. Or perhaps you’re like I used to be, and years can pass without being held or hugged with care.

For me, this gesture made the intention tangible. It also introduced another useful practice: the power of a pause.

At first, it felt goofy. I was imagining little Jake beside me, occasionally touching my chest, and trying to change how I spoke to myself. I felt like I was doing a stupid thing for a useless reason.

But I kept doing it.

I believe this was part of the beginning of changing my life. I was practicing kindness before it felt natural.

People had called me names that felt burned into my soul.

Pathetic. Disgusting. Gross.

My narrative had learned to use those words to describe me. It kept repeating the same lies somebody else had put into my head.

I couldn’t undo those experiences. I couldn’t make the feelings disappear on command. But sometimes I could catch a word and choose another one.

The new words didn’t have to be grand or glowing. They had to be words I could begin to use.

I’m having a hard time. I need help. I can take care of one thing right now.

That gave me somewhere to begin.

One word I encourage people to notice is should. It can express a useful responsibility. But when we turn it against ourselves, it can carry judgment, shame, and a sense that we’ve already failed.

Listen to the difference when the sentence leaves room for action:

I can. I want. I could. I will.

These words can open a possibility. Choose one that is honest and realistic for you.

Even “I could have” can leave us stuck looking backward. Give it somewhere to go: “I could have gone, and I didn’t. What got in the way? What can I do now?”

The responsibility is still there. So is the opportunity to respond.

For one week, listen for the word should in the way you speak to yourself. When you notice it:

Notice what happens. Does the new wording help you understand what you need? Does it make taking action a little easier?

You may still feel upset. You may forget the practice. You may catch yourself thinking, I should be better at this by now. That’s another moment to pause.

This resource combines my lived experience with practices that overlap with established psychological approaches. The exercise described here is a personal reflection practice; it has not been tested as a complete treatment.