When people hear the word storytelling, they often think of novels, movies, or carefully constructed narratives with clear beginnings and endings.
But most storytelling isn’t polished or public. It’s authenticity.
It happens quietly, in everyday moments. In how we explain our day. In how we remember the past. In the way we describe ourselves when no one else is listening.
At its core, storytelling is simple:
Something happened — and we decided what it meant.
That meaning, more than the event itself, shapes how we live. The hidden power of language
We tend to treat words as harmless. Just words. But the language we use to describe our lives is constantly influencing how we see ourselves, our relationships, and our capacity to cope.
There’s a critical difference between observing and judging.
“I’m tired” is information.
“I’m failing” is a story.
“This is hard” is a fact.
“I can’t handle hard things” is a conclusion.
Most of us skip straight past observation and land immediately in interpretation. We rush to decide what something means before we fully take in what actually happened.
Over time, those rushed interpretations harden into beliefs.
One of the most useful skills I’ve learned — in life, not just writing — is staying longer in the observation phase.
- What did I actually see?
- What did I actually hear?
- What did my body actually experience?
- Not what I assumed.
- Not what I feared.
- Not what usually happens.
When we slow down our storytelling, the narrative becomes more accurate — and more humane. We notice details we would’ve missed. The story becomes less reactive, less absolute, and far more honest.
That pause creates space. And space changes everything. Familiar stories aren’t always true.
The most powerful stories are often the ones we repeat without questioning:
- This is just how I am.
- This always goes badly.
- I don’t do well in situations like this.
Familiarity can feel like truth, but it isn’t the same thing. When we stop observing and rely on memory instead, we start living inside old drafts of ourselves. Stories that may have once protected us quietly become limitations.
Growth doesn’t always come from changing your circumstances. Sometimes it comes from being willing to tell the same moment differently. You get to edit — carefully, honestly
You don’t have to force meaning onto every experience.
You don’t have to turn every struggle into a lesson.
You don’t have to shame yourself to explain a hard day.
But you do get to choose your words.
And those words shape how safe your body feels. How you relate to others. How much room you allow yourself to grow.
Storytelling isn’t reserved for writers or artists. It’s something we’re all doing, every single day.
The real question isn’t whether you’re telling a story — it’s whether the one you’re telling still fits who you’re becoming.
