The Stories We Tell Ourselves

How our private narratives shape our identity, our relationships, and the way we move through the world

There are the things we say out loud. And then there are the things we say only to ourselves, quietly, privately, repeatedly, often without even knowing it.

Those private stories are the real puppeteers. They decide what we believe we deserve, how we handle conflict, what we tolerate, what we chase, and what we hide.

For the longest time, I didn’t understand this. I thought I was reacting to life.
I didn’t realise I was reacting to my narrative of life.

It’s taken a lot of emotional honesty, breathwork, journaling, and some very uncomfortable inner work to see the truth:
I wasn’t fighting the world.
I was fighting the stories I had inherited, absorbed, or created.

And slowly, I’ve begun rewriting them.

This essay is about that.
The stories we tell ourselves. How they’re born, how they shape us, and how we can choose new ones.

Photo by Darius Bashar on Unsplash

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The Origin Stories We Never Question

Most of our inner narratives begin long before we have the language to name them.

Maybe it started with a parent who was always overwhelmed.
Maybe it came from a quiet household where emotions were never acknowledged.
Maybe it came from a childhood experience we didn’t have the tools to process.

In my case, I grew up believing that needing anything made me a burden.
I learned to stay small, quiet, and agreeable. I learned to adapt. I learned to notice everyone’s mood before noticing my own.

It became my identity. It became my survival.

So the story I told myself was simple:
“Stay small. Don’t take up space. You will be dismissed anyway.”

I didn’t choose that story.
I inherited it.

But I lived it for years.

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How Old Narratives Show Up in Adult Life

Inner stories rarely remain inner. They show up everywhere.

They decide how you introduce yourself in a room.
They decide how you handle attention.
They decide whether you raise your hand or stay quiet.
They decide how you receive love.
They decide how you protect your boundaries or fail to.

For me, these stories showed up as dismissal.

I would walk into spaces already convinced that I didn’t matter or that I was less than. That belief then shaped how I carried myself, how I spoke, how I read the room.
And people responded to the energy I was putting out.

The old narrative became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It wasn’t the world dismissing me. It was the story I was projecting.

Once I saw this, everything began to shift.

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When a Story Is No Longer True but Still Feels True

One of the strangest parts of healing is noticing when an old identity stops fitting you, yet still feels safe.

In the last few months, I’ve grown in ways I didn’t expect.
I’m more confident at work.
I’m more grounded at home.
I feel capable, powerful, steady.
But my inner story hasn’t caught up.

That’s the in-between stage, where your life expands faster than your self-concept.

You’re becoming someone new, yet still hearing the voice of someone old.

It’s disorienting. It’s also the exact place transformation begins.

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The Moment You Realise You Can Choose a New Story

Here’s what no one tells you:
You don’t have to keep the story you were handed. You can rewrite it!

You can watch your thoughts like clouds.
You can notice what you’re telling yourself on autopilot.
You can observe your narrative the way you observe your breath.

And the moment you notice the old story, you begin to separate from it. You become the author instead of the character.

You begin to ask:
“Is this mine?”
“Is this true?”
“Do I want to carry this into the next decade of my life?”
“Who would I be without this story?”

And sometimes it means getting angry and saying f*** it. I’m ready to rewrite this.

Healing doesn’t start when you feel better. Healing starts when you question the script.

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The Rewrite: Speaking to Yourself in a New Language

I am learning a new inner language.

A language that doesn’t begin with fear or criticism.
A language that does not assume the worst of me.
A language that is gentle, steady, and grounding.

This new language sounds like:

“I deserve to take up space.”
“My voice matters.”
“I am not here to be dismissed.”
“I am allowed to be seen.”
“I can choose who I become.”
“I am not defined by what was done to me.”
“I am whole, even when I am healing.”

You can feel the difference instantly.
The nervous system softens.
The breath deepens.
The body recognises truth.

This is where identity begins to shift. Slowly but surely. And at first, not visible on the outside, but enough to transform you internally.

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The Practice of Becoming Someone New

Rewriting your internal story is not intellectual work. It is embodied work.

It is breathwork.
It is movement.
It is journaling.
It is catching your old voice and choosing a new one.
It is reminding your body that safety is possible.
It is noticing when you slip… and choosing compassion over shame. Again and again.

Some days you step fully into the new identity. Some days you collapse into the old one.

Both are part of becoming.

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A PRACTICE FOR YOU

Rewrite a story you’ve been carrying

Take a few quiet minutes and ask yourself:

1. What is one story I tell myself that no longer serves me?
Write it down in a single sentence.

2. Where did this story come from?
A parent?
A past relationship?
A childhood incident?
A belief you outgrew?

3. How does this story shape my behaviour?
List where it shows up — in your work, relationships, self-worth, or daily patterns.

4. Who would I be without this story?
Let yourself imagine it fully.

5. Write the new story.
A sentence you will return to every day.

Something like:
“I deserve to be here.”
or
“I am allowed to take up space.”
or
“I can choose a new identity now.”

Read it out loud. Let your body hear it. Let it feel unfamiliar. Let it feel possible.

This is how rewriting begins.