The Stories We Tell: Every Piece of Your Story Matters

The problem with walls is that they shield you from feelings of pain and shame, maybe, but also goodness, also beauty.

I DON’T THROW AROUND the word purpose lightly. I get that it can feel like a heavy notion. I know for me thoughts around “What is my life’s purpose?” have often kept me up at night. Mostly because I worry that if I don’t yet know, somehow I’m already behind—that I’ve already lost time. The idea of purpose also lacks tangibility—a “maybe, someday” revelation you cross your fingers hoping you’ll stumble upon. But instead of choosing a mindset that makes it all too easy to live for tomorrow, what if the very things you’re meant to breathe life into are closer than you think?

The view from where you stand is spectacular. I hope you’ll look up and take it in more often than not: every breath, every sight, every sound. Because when we let our senses say to our soul, This is something that matters to me, we’re reminded that we are more than we give ourselves credit for. That we have passions and true loves and a soul that sings, and that all those things really do mean more than the stuff that keeps us busy. It doesn’t matter how late in life, how tall your walls; you have not missed your chance to see it.

And whether it’s shame, uncertainty, or a sense of unworthiness, we’ll remember that, as powerful as those emotions are, we are not powerless to them. They are ours to hold and to own and to wrestle to the ground. Even when they look and act and sound like protection, they are what keep us from living life with our whole hearts.

But here’s what I’ve learned about perfection: it’s isolating.

But there’s no direct path to being truly known if you don’t allow yourself to be fully seen.

This way of living has a trickle-down effect. When you see someone living out loud, all around the room, rules break. You either jump in and follow someone’s lead or you find your own corner where you thrive—whatever it is that reminds you that you have more within you than you sometimes remember.

Some of us see the world the way it was taught to us. Others grow up running from what was modeled for them. Either way, every day, every minute, we view the world through a lens of our own making: beliefs we pick up from uncertain or painful experiences, ways the world showed us how to perceive ourselves through its eyes instead of our own.

If that resonates with you, find comfort in the gracious reality that all of us get to write each and every chapter of the story our lives will tell. Despite the setbacks, despite rhythms that don’t flow our way, despite the world spinning, we still get to hold every chapter, we still get a chance to write and rewrite whatever we’d like. The pen is ours, even when it doesn’t feel that way.

But I’m not so sure I ever really grew out of envisioning things that aren’t there. Because as I got older, I was still imagining monsters everywhere.

There are, within each of our histories, inevitable cracks that need filling, fractures that need mending. How we begin to make repairs in the aftermath is up to us. We can fill the crevices with the things that may seem easiest at first glance—the rubble, the ash, the stuff of life that ends up doing us more harm than good. Or we can dig deeper, past the surface, till we find the specks of gold hidden in the dust.

What did I learn, how have I changed? What do I carry forward, and more importantly, what do I need to leave behind?

that truth, vulnerability, and courage can make even the most everyday, ordinary life tell an extraordinary story.

To retrace as many moments of pain and regret and grief as there have been moments of beauty and grace and joy. To slow down enough to celebrate the wins and learn from the losses. To navigate all that I’m carrying here and now—noting what needs to be left behind so I can move forward a little lighter, a little freer.

- we judge a lot of things by how they turn out. And through all of this, it seems we’ve learned to glorify the outcome of something far more than the defining moments that got us there: the spark that caught our heart’s interest in the first place, times we wanted to give up but didn’t, even the beauty of embracing change along the way, the courage and intent it took to stick with something we believed in. All the lessons we picked up that we might not have learned otherwise.

I have learned that when we're not feeding our souls with grace and truth they feed themselves with all sorts of ugly interruptions.

I want us to show the world what it looks like to run opposite the hurried rhythms it has created, opposite the tide that carries us away from a life of wonder and beauty toward one of busyness and distraction. I want us to never stop trying to see more of the life we’ve been invited into, with the hope that the people we love never do either.

I’ve come to learn that, just like with anything that’s worthwhile, presence takes practice.

My hope is that the more you write, the more you remember, the more you’ll feel the moments themselves. That the memories you connect will inch closer and closer, one to another, and then another, until you have before you this landscape of a life you never thought you’d get to hold again.

I didn’t let the thought of what people might think ruin the moment.

Think back to the last moment that made you feel something. Was it in response to something you care for? Did it break down one of those walls you’ve built around your life? Chances are, it was, or it did. Because moments when we feel something remind us that we’re not just skin and bones. That we’re not meant to be robots. Not meant to go, go, go.

I want to practice presence, but not just for the sake of it, and not in some aimless way. No one can afford to sit around, waiting all day on the off chance that a moment worth our time will approach us. That won’t work; and besides, it feels like we’d be stripping those moments of their magic. Rather, I’m starting to see that presence doesn’t have anything to do with waiting at all.

Insecurities around my identity have also transformed my heart and my perspective for those who feel less-than. I empathize with people who know what it’s like to overhear quiet insults directed at them, who pretend not to notice the sideways glances, the wandering eyes. People who feel like they have to break themselves down to fit into the box the world tells them to, the same box I’d squeezed myself into more times than I care to remember. I know I’m not the only one who has felt this way—misunderstood, misrepresented, or missed all together. So the last thing I would ever want anyone to believe is that I’d throw rocks at you for being different.

it’s less about what I can offer them and more about how I sit with them.

Without hurt, we can never know trust. Without pain, we can never know what wholeness feels like—to love and to belong. And without disappointment, we can never know triumph.

The reality is, we live in a vulnerable world. That much won’t ever change. It’s a world filled with pain and hurt and confusion. A world where unpredictable moments can cause us to want to guard our hearts, to steer clear of certain tendencies, to look out for ourselves, to blame our lack, or to prove the naysayers wrong. Some of us go on to define our lives in full pursuit of these defenses—even without noticing that we lose more of who we are every time we make ourselves small, every time we fail to remember we are more than those moments that hurt us.

So fear continued to trail me, masquerading as protection and safety. Promising me a life unscathed. Teaching me how to wear disguises of my own. Perfection, mostly, which is a word I use to soften the real desire, which is control. But here’s what I’ve learned about perfection: it’s isolating. And the more isolated I felt, the more fear grew.

For years—too many years—I spent a great deal of energy avoiding walking through unknown doors. Fear deepened the ruts of my growing insecurities. Shame from being called out for being different in the lunchroom and trying to hide certain aspects of my story from a world I didn’t think would accept them. Doubt about what I had to offer that people would be interested in.

And I can sense this stirring, also, to listen differently: less strategy, more heartbeat.

I’m an introverted type, and sometimes talking in a group only makes things cloudier in my brain. Writing is how I can make sense of things—problems, ideas, the world, and my place in it. My journal is where I talk to myself and to God.