The Narrative (and How to Change It)

Humans are storytellers by nature. We don’t just live experiences—we interpret them. We thread them together into meaning.

“This happened because I’m not enough.” 

“I’ve always been the fixer.” 

“I can’t trust anyone.” 

“I don’t belong.” 

These are not just thoughts. They are stories we carry. And they shape everything.

Narratives are powerful. They tell us who we are, what we’re capable of, and what kind of world we live in. They influence how we show up in relationships, how we handle pain, what we believe is possible, and what we silently expect from others. Whether we realize it or not, we are always living inside a story.

However, most of our core narratives weren’t chosen consciously. They were inherited. Passed down through family dynamics, cultural expectations, media, religion, trauma, survival.

Many of them were formed in childhood, before we had the language or capacity to question them. Over time, those stories harden. They become "truth."

On a collective level, we see this, too. Whole societies operate from dominant narratives:

That success equals worth. 

That vulnerability is weakness. 

That power belongs to the few. 

That there’s not enough to go around. 

That "those people" are the problem.

When left unexamined, these stories drive systems, policies, and generations of division. They create scapegoats and blind spots. They reinforce fear. And they keep us locked in cycles of harm.

This is why narrative matters. When you change the story, you change what’s possible.

So how does an individual begin to change their own narrative?

It usually begins with noticing. Paying attention to the story you’re telling—especially in moments of struggle. Ask yourself:

• What do I believe this situation says about me?

• Where did that belief come from?

• Whose voice am I hearing when I say that?

• Is this story helping me grow, or keeping me small?

It might sound simple, but it’s profound. The moment you realize you are not your narrative—you are the one carrying it—is the moment you begin to reclaim authorship. You get to edit. To rewrite. To say: “Maybe I’m not broken—maybe I adapted in a brilliant way to survive.” Or:

“Maybe I don’t have to do it alone anymore.” Or: “What if there’s nothing wrong with me at all?”

Changing your narrative doesn’t mean denying the past. It means letting your interpretation evolve. It means making space for compassion, nuance, growth, and new possibilities. It means asking: What’s a truer story I can live into now?

When more people do this work individually, the collective begins to shift, too. Because the collective is made of individuals.

One person healing their internalized story about worth begins to raise children who don’t have to prove theirs. One person questioning the myth of scarcity begins to build community instead of competition. One person refusing to otherize begins to see the humanity in people they once feared.

We change the world not just by changing systems, but by changing the stories that built them.

Story is a language everyone understands. Whether we’re aware of it or not, we all want to be part of one that makes us feel alive, connected, and real.