The misconception that stories have to be fictional can distract us from the fact that we all have very real stories to tell. I have one, as do you, and so does everyone else. Our stories describe how we came to be, why we are the way that we are, why we live how we do. Yet while each of us yearns to tell their story, we are not nearly so keen to listen. These stories then bottle up, threatening to explode like an erupting volcano. As the late Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
After a close friend of mine passed away, I realized how important our stories really are. I didn’t believe stories were important, especially my own - no one needed to know about me. But I was looking at it the wrong way. It’s the personal stories of real life that inspire and they are our legacy too. No matter what happens to us, our stories are still there.
So many of us don’t want to “burden” those around us with our pain and the dark parts of our stories, so we edit and rewrite and only talk about the parts with sunshine and rainbows. We edit our stories so that people only see us the way we want to be seen. Being real and telling the whole story means opening up and being vulnerable, which is a very real and terrifying notion. Now, hold on to your hat, reader, because the next thing I say may blow your mind.
Your story matters. The whole story. The dark parts, the shadows hidden between the bursts of light, the sunshine and rainbows, the demons hiding in your closet, every single detail. It all matters.
If you’re anything like me, this is a difficult concept to grasp. I’ve always been the strong one, the tough girl who doesn’t let anything get to her, the one who is always okay when others would be falling apart. The truth is, I was falling apart, I just didn’t want anyone to know. I felt like my limbs were being pulled in every direction while someone punched me in the heart. But I put on a smile and pretended everything was fine. I don’t like talking to people, I don’t like opening up, and I certainly wasn’t about to let anyone know that I wasn’t fine. But eventually, it broke me. Remember when I said untold stories are like a volcano waiting to erupt? Well, my story erupted Mount St. Helens style, leaving a massive crater in its place. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I was broken, but I decided that it was time to start putting myself back together. I started going to counseling, I started opening up, I started admitting when I had a bad day. I started praying and going to church again. I stopped pretending nothing could hurt me and admitted to myself the one thing I never wanted to say: I’m human, and I’m not invincible.
I also learned that if this happened to me, it also happens to others. So along with telling more of my story, I started listening. I started having deeper conversations with people, asking them about their lives, encouraging them that their story matters and that they aren’t alone. And I have been blessed and encouraged by the stories I’ve heard.
People need community and connection, which is getting increasingly difficult as we stop having conversations and retreat behind our phone screens. I urge you to think about the people in your life. If someone is always fine and nothing bothers them, they may need someone to talk to - maybe that friend is you. Perhaps you just want someone to listen. Find someone to share stories with. Make real, meaningful, human connections. Listen for the sake of listening, without judgment. Fearlessly tell your own story. Become an open book. Allow others to write their stories in between the lines of yours.
When all is said and done, stories exist long after we do. Share yours with the world. You matter, and your story matters. So go ahead. We’re listening.
Emma Rollman
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