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I was once involved in a form of authentic relating that encouraged participants to “drop their story”. We would come together, interact, and let go of any inner dialogue or narrative we had about who we were, who other people were, and what was happening. It was a sort of collective mindfulness practice intended to break down barriers to connection and facilitate a deep sense of presence, aliveness, and wonder.
This practice made me super uncomfortable – not just because it was asking me to be vulnerable with people I didn’t yet know or trust, but because it was challenging the core of what I understand myself to be as a writer and a human being: a story-teller. If telling stories is bad, that must be my original sin, because I just can’t stop doing it. And my work with self-love means I can no longer condemn anything that’s an inherent part of me.
Diving into Viktor Frankl’s “Man’s Search For Meaning” recently gave me a missing piece of the puzzle. Human beings have an innate need for meaning, which is as vital as our need for water, food, shelter, and love. Our bodies can survive without a guiding story, just like we can stay alive without love, but life can’t be called “living” without some sense of purpose. Meaning is deeply personal, constantly shifting, never fully grasped, and something we are inherently restless without.
Frankl taught that finding a sense of meaning enables us to survive times of unavoidable suffering like those we are living in now. For him, that was his firsthand experience of Auschwitz. For me, it was the two times I was suicidal. He found meaning amidst the suffering of the concentration camps by retaining his sense humanity, dignity, and goodness. I found perseverance in my belief that my suffering was a result of the current plight of humanity and the planet, and that if I could find a way through, I could help others do the same.
In our culture, we’re used to finding satisfaction through achieving our goals and through pleasurable experiences – two sources of meaning that Frankl referred to as creative work and relationship with others (self, human, and the natural world). But he also acknowledged that even when achievement and connection are not available to us, such as during times of debilitating illness or social isolation, finding meaning through our attitude to our suffering enables us not only to survive, but to experience a sense of wholeness, levity, and purpose within what we are being asked to endure.
For me, this is a balancing act and an art form that is all about story. When I realized that my resentment of and resistance to my fatigue and malaise were my main barrier to both contentment and recovery, I knew I had to change the story I was telling about why I was sick and what I really needed to get better. My story shifted from one of achieving health so I could achieve my dreams to one of suffering with dignity and serenity. This might sound like being a victim or giving up, but my lived experience of that transformation was tremendously gracious, loving, and relieving.
Whatever I felt or accomplished on a given day lost its power to affect how I felt about myself or my life. If I was able to be kind to myself and do everything I could to take good care of my body, mind, and heart regardless of the outcome, my life had meaning. The meaning of my illness shifted from being a punishment for abusing my body and a barrier to my sense of fulfillment to a more beloved teacher of self-compassion than I ever could have imagined. And – you guessed it – the moment I found this sense of meaning was the moment my health started gradually improving.
So I invite you – dear reader – to think about something in your life that is causing you suffering. If it’s something you’ve also put a lot of work into overcoming and feel like you’ve failed, even better! This could be as intimate as a compulsive habit, as raw as an ongoing conflict with someone who triggers you, or as vast as your attempts to address climate change or social injustice. What matters is that this thing you suffer over has some quality of being beyond your control.
As you think about this element of your life, become aware of what your mind is saying. Write down the words so you can see them clearly as a monologue. See if you can find the story line in the monologue. What beliefs about yourself, others, or the world fuel your suffering? Are those beliefs true? How do you know?
Pay attention to how your body feels as you do this. Do you feel tension, heat, restlessness, numbness? See those qualities as the feelings of the narrator who is telling this story. What do the narrator’s feelings tell you about why this story is important, where it might have come from, how it is keeping you whole, safe, valuable, or … yes … giving your life meaning?
Next, ask yourself if it’s time for anything about this story to shift. Is it keeping you stuck in a cycle of thought, feeling, or relating to others that’s feeling stale, constricting, inauthentic, or frustrating? Is it limiting your ability to feel present, engaged, curious, creative? What would need to shift in your story to open up a sense of greater possibility, connection, agency, forgiveness, safety, or hope? And what would you need in order to make that shift – in order for this story to feel just as true and even more life-affirming than the one you’ve been telling?
If you’ve made it through this practice, you’ve probably noticed how hard it is! One of the reasons our story is so hard to see clearly and to shift is because it is necessary for our survival. Mucking around with it can literally feel life-threatening! But if our story isn’t serving a life-affirming purpose, it can also kill us – sometimes a long, slow soul death and sometimes a quick death of overwhelming despair.
Changing our narrative is possible. I experienced it just this morning as I crawled to my meditation cushion feeling strung out by all the chaos in my job and home that I’m being asked to manage; all the demands on my time, energy, and patience when all I want is to be left alone with my thoughts and feelings. As I slowly began elongating my exhale, my body relaxed, my mind slowed, and I felt a warmth starting in my heart and spreading through my body. I realized that all this time I’ve been spending caring for myself and calming my nervous system has given me a safe and loving place to come anytime I’m feeling at odds with the world and my life.
As I relaxed into that sense of contentment, I realized that life has been giving me a multi-tiered lesson in the subtle balance between boundaries and hoarding. It’s vital that I know my limits and act on them for my own health and integrity. And it’s equally vital that I show up for what’s asked of me if I want to be part of a community. If I’m always safeguarding my time, money, food, energy, and compassion, I will be alone. I’ve been living out a story that other people will take everything from me if I let them. This has taught me how to take care of myself, but it’s also stressed me out by feeling like I’m the one who has to do it all and deepened my suffering through social and emotional isolation.
What it will take for this story to shift in me is a willingness to not be in complete control of my time and energy, to let the needs of those around me come at inconvenient times and to find that I have the patience, graciousness and resilience to show up for them. It will also take me trusting that I can recognize when I don’t have the capacity or when a request doesn’t align with my values and say, “I’m unable to do this right now.” It takes knowing I can survive any retaliation or rejection that comes from speaking my truth, and that anything I give from my willing and open heart will come back to me ten-fold. What this new story gives me the chance to live in a world that is not out to exploit me, but that’s inviting me to participate – body and soul – in the beautiful mess of being alive.
To shift our stories, we have to first recognize what they are. We have to understand and honor the purpose they serve. We must imagine the story we want to be living, and then exercise the courage and patience of testing it out so that we learn to trust that it is real and possible. When I see my unique niche as telling the best possible story with my life – my life as it is and my life as I imagine it to be – I have a deep sense of meaning that endures and fortifies me for whatever comes.
Nancy
Want another perspective on your story? Some creative, compassionate ideas for ways it might shift? Some cheerleading for trying out a new narrative? I have a knack for recognizing and reframing life stories in a way that’s far more courageous, empowered, and loving … and still feels surprisingly true.
If you’re ready to see how creative and resilient you already are – drop me a line and we’ll find a time to talk! nancy@innerwoven.net.