We are Storytellers

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” writes author Joan Didion.

There are the stories we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. There are the stories we tell so that we can get out of bed in the morning. Or, in the case of those with severe long Covid or other chronic illnesses, there are the stories we tell so that we can face another day of not getting out of bed. 

There are days when I need to believe that I will fully recover, and soon. I close my eyes and imagine myself running through the forest, feet bounding over rocks and roots. I give myself over to the sensations of speed, strength, lightness. I let the joy of it—the hope—carry me.  

Other days, I need to live into the possibility of not recovering. I need to live into that story so that I can discover that it, too, would be okay. Holding this possibility in my open palm, I remember the loved ones who support me. I remember the thousand happy moments I’ve already experienced while ill, as well as the evidence that I can handle hard things. I recall the ways I’ve grown and am still growing. There’s hope here, too.

The stories we tell ourselves can illuminate the good that is in our lives or obscure it. They can cultivate belonging or isolation. They can breathe abundance or scarcity, love or fear, self-compassion or self-criticism into our lives.

More important, though, than what particular story you are telling yourself today is the understanding that you are the storyteller. You hold the pen that is composing the story of your life. Sure, some key plot elements have been chosen for you, but it’s up to you to craft them into a narrative that reflects your values, honors your intentions, and expresses your unique voice.

Based on my start-and-stop efforts to write a novel, I’ll warn you up front: stories require revision. A lot of it. I rarely get things right the first time, either in writing or life. In her fabulous book “Bird by Bird,” Anne Lamott introduces the notion of the Shitty First Draft. “All good writers write them,” she insists. “This is how they end up with good second and terrific third drafts.”

I’ve been through a lot of Shitty First Drafts with Covid-19. There was the “I don’t have to worry about it because I’m young and healthy” draft. Then, the “this is just a cold” story. Followed by a long, dark chronicle of “I’m going to die.” But woven into my back-and-forth narratives of “I’m going to heal” and “then again, maybe not,” are plot elements and characters that have changed me. This happens as a storyteller. When you let yourself create and live from the heart, the process changes you—cracks you open to new aspects of the world around and within you.  

The realization of just how hard life can be and of how many people are suffering at any given time has changed me forever. The deep sense of interconnection that has lifted me from my darkest moments has changed me forever. Friendships with long-haulers who I may never meet in person have changed me forever. Sharing myself with you through writing has changed me forever. At least I tell myself that all of this is “forever” because that’s the story I want to live. That’s the happily ever after that I hope for most—the one in which I keep growing, keep connecting, keep revising and expanding my story until it’s big enough to hold all of this and more.

Take a moment to step back from your stories today. Maybe you’ll notice that a few of them are Shitty First Drafts. Do you need more time with them (that’s okay), or are there revisions you feel ready to make?

P.S. Here’s one more quote for your week, this time from Ira Glass: “Great stories happen to those who can tell them.”