The Stories We Keep Inside Us

I’ve been thinking lately about the stories we keep inside us. The stories about the cool things we’ve done, the magical moments we’ve encountered, the griefs we’ve endured, the daring risks we’ve taken, the crap we’ve quietly put up with, the guilty pleasures we enjoy, our anxieties and insecurities. We keep these stories inside us for any number of reasons. Because nobody asks us enough curious questions for them to come out. Because we’re professionals and we think personal issues should remain in a separate sphere. Because we fear that sharing our stories may receive negative feedback or may come back to haunt us. Because we’re so busy doing that we don’t make time for the kinds of meandering conversations that might allow these stories to seep out. Because somehow, we don’t feel enough self-worth that our stories are worth sharing.

There’s a cost to this, of course. As Maya Angelou famously wrote: “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” This cost takes several forms. At the core is the cost of a sense of belonging and acceptance: a low-grade loneliness from being seen but not recognized, because we haven’t shared enough of ourselves for that to happen. We’ll never be fully known, understood and appreciated the way we deserve to be if we don’t share stories about ourselves.

Then there’s the cost of genuinely connecting with others. In our professional (and personal) lives we have all learned to edit what we share about ourselves. We’ve often stuck to the ‘chosen story’ and tucked away the details or detours that detract from its core message. And yet, it’s those very details and detours that demonstrate our humanness, that make us relatable, that connect us to our colleagues/ families/ friends/ community, and that may just validate someone else’s experience and give them permission to share their similar story.

Then there’s the physical cost of keeping our stories inside us. Our bodies store our emotional responses to experiences and beliefs. This can result in illness, poor posture, a chronic ‘fight or flight’ mode when we don’t allow ourselves the opportunity to express these emotions, convey our stories, put these beliefs to the test. Physical suffering is so often the result of psychological stunting.

Telling our stories involves risk, it’s true. It’s best done in an atmosphere of psychological safety, when we feel we can trust those involved to hold our stories with care. Like most things worth doing, it takes practice. A small share of something personal, one that doesn’t have significant emotional consequences, is a good place to start. From here we can take increasingly brave steps, adapt to responses, care for ourselves when our nerves feel tender, learn and practice tips and techniques that help us regulate those nerves. We may not get to a place where we are fully sharing our stories. Still, some sharing is better than the agony of keeping it all inside, as long as such sharing doesn’t meet with disregard or negativity. If it does, that may mean we’re not in a context where we can thrive.

And, of course, context matters. What one shares with a professional community is and ought to be different from what one shares with a partner, a child, a therapist, or a stranger on a plane. Intention and discernment are key.

In my Sidecar world, I’ve witnessed the tremendous relief when a coaching client feels safe to share her story with me and feels validation and receptivity when doing so. Perhaps this is about a small triumph that may feel too petty to share with others, a quiet insecurity that threatens to grow louder, an experience with a community member that borders on harassment, a wild wondering she’s tempted to nurture. Saying something out loud can be deeply empowering; a fierce act of compassion and support for oneself. I’m honoured to be an active listener to these stories, and one that can help transform them into positive action.

Sidecar Rallies and Summits are also places where stories unfold, especially as conditions feel right for open-hearted sharing. There are few experiences more powerful than receiving validation and appreciation from a group of supportive peers. I’ve seen leaders blossom and gain a new sense of agency as they release their long-suppressed stories in these circumstances.

What we can all do besides practice our story-telling: we can become better story-listeners. Because everyone around us has untold stories inside them; perhaps we can be the ones worthy enough to relieve them of their agony.

Yours in speaking out, and listening up,

Bridget