The Power of Stories

Oh, the power of stories. 

The ones whispered by our mothers, of their dreams for us. 

The ones read to us by our fathers in precious minutes before sleep. 

The made up stories acted out in playrooms and living rooms and classrooms. 

The stories that make you cry. 

The stories we tell ourselves about who we are. 

The ones we think are keeping us safe.

The ones that shelter us from the truth.  Or the pain.

The ones that hold our shame.

I told my therapist a story about a little girl, so afraid to float in her swimming class that she kept her tippy toes on the pebbly bottom of the pool.

What is the story you’re telling yourself about that story?

For fifty years I held that story as proof positive that I was a cheater.  That I was less.  That I was not enough.

She helped me rewrite my story.

My ex has a story about our marriage.

I have a different story.

Some stories serve us.  Some are best left behind.  Some demand to be rewritten.

And some must be told.

Last night I got on stage and told such a story.  I gave a piece of myself to a roomful of strangers and was richly rewarded. 

For there is power in stories.