The Stories That Shape Us

Growing up, it was obvious that I wasn't academically inclined—at least not at that time or in that format. My sister was, and still is, incredibly smart. She won awards for her academic achievements, had an amazing friend group, excelled at sports, teachers delighted in her, and she was selected for various leadership roles. 

And then there was me. The second daughter who seemed destined to live in her shadow.

My grades were average at best. I really struggled in school, and homework became a daily battleground between my mother and me. I was always on the outside of groups, my hand-eye coordination was nonexistent, and I distinctly remember one of my teachers saying with disappointment in the first week of the semester, "Oh, you're not really like your sister, are you?" 

He was right. I didn’t care about quadratic equations or the periodic table. I was far more interested in art projects, writing short stories and poetry, or using my imagination to create epic adventures where I was the lead character.

Today, parents may do a better job of capitalizing on a child's interests and talents, but in the 90s, the gap between A+ and C+ work seemed like an immutable predictor of future success—the boundary line of destiny itself. This isn't a slight against my parents. My mom is truly an unsung hero, painfully dragging me through my homework so I wouldn't fall too far behind. But the struggle and tension became the overwhelming narrative of my childhood: "I'm not smart. Things are hard for me. I'm not good at anything anyone cares about."

That belief was woven deep into the fabric of my being and became a self-fulfilling prophecy for years to come. It wasn't until grad school that I came face-to-face with the startling realization that I thought I was stupid—mostly because no one else viewed me that way and very directly gave me feedback that this belief was, complete nonsense.

I remember sitting in my car one day after class, I had the remarkable thought: 

"What if you just believed you were smart? What if you told yourself, on repeat, that you are incredibly intelligent?" 

In a matter of moments, a flood of memories rushed forward—receiving top marks for my essay in art history, memorizing 50+ pages of scripts for school plays, teaching myself to code in grade school, winning an online poetry writing competition, earning an award for my 5th-grade science project, receiving recognition for my drawing ability. 

The evidence kept mounting. I was smart, and there was data to prove it. I had just been running my life’s reel through a filter of self-doubt.

Our lives reflect the stories we tell ourselves. The narrative of not being smart left me feeling helpless, powerless, hopeless, and isolated. The made up story recruited memories and data points that further supported that belief while systematically ignoring information that refuted it.

I realized I wasn’t living in my sister’s shadow. There was no shadow. She is distinctly her and I am distinctly me. It was society that provided a context for comparison and that was a narrative I had outgrown.

The Wisdom

This universal truth has been echoed through the ages by countless thinkers:

The Science

The narratives we internalize don't just influence our thoughts—they literally reshape our brain's architecture and the way we process reality. At the core of this phenomenon lies the Reticular Activating System (RAS), a fascinating network of neurons that acts as a filter, prioritizing the information we perceive based on what we focus on. If you consistently tell yourself, "I'm unworthy" or "I'm incapable," the RAS will diligently collect evidence supporting this belief.

Our ability to change these narratives isn't just self-help folklore—it's grounded in the science of neuroplasticity. The brain isn't a static organ but rather a dynamic storyteller that constantly revises its script in response to new experiences and thoughts. Over time, those neural pathways associated with self-doubt weaken, while new, more supportive connections strengthen. As neuroscientist Donald Hebb famously noted, "Neurons that fire together, wire together," meaning that repeatedly focusing on new, positive narratives helps them become your brain's default setting.

The Rewrite

The most important conversations you’ll ever have are the ones you’ll have with yourself." – David Goggins

If you’ve have a story or belief that leaves you feeling 

• Helpless

• Powerless

• Hopeless

• Isolated 

It’s time to change the narrative. 

1. Recognize why it started and how it protected you

Our limiting beliefs often begin as protective mechanisms. That voice telling you "don't try, you'll fail" might have originally developed to shield you from disappointment or criticism. Research in developmental psychology shows that these protective beliefs typically form between ages 6-12, during what Erik Erikson called the "Industry vs. Inferiority" stage. Understanding this can help you appreciate your younger self's coping mechanisms while recognizing that you've outgrown their usefulness.

2. Look at the story from a different perspective and change it to one that gives you upward mobility 

This isn't about denying reality or minimizing trauma or painful situations—it's about finding frameworks that give you agency. 

In their groundbreaking work "Metaphors We Live By," Lakoff and Johnson revealed how our metaphorical frameworks fundamentally shape our reality. 

The way we frame our experiences is about choosing metaphors and perspectives that open doors rather than close them. 

• If you see life like a battle, every interaction feels like a potential attack, relationships become strategic alliances, and daily challenges feel like enemies to be defeated. Alternatively life could be viewed as a dance where every interaction is a chance to find new rhythms. Some days you'll move in perfect sync with others, creating beautiful moments of connection. Other times you might step on toes or miss a beat - but that's just part of learning the choreography.

• If you view yourself as stuck, life feels like a dead end, every movement seems futile, and time feels frozen. Instead of being stuck you can view yourself as a seed in winter. What feels like stagnation is actually a crucial period of underground growth. The stillness isn't permanent—it's preparatory.

• If you believe you’re fundamentally broken, every flaw feels like more evidence of damage, growth seems impossible, vulnerability feels dangerous, and rejection feels inevitable. Perhaps you could view yourself as a mosaic. What you perceive as cracks and flaws are actually the unique lines that make your pattern beautiful and distinct. Like stained glass, light shines differently through each piece of you, creating something more beautiful than a single smooth pane ever could. 

3. Support the new story and belief with evidence 

The human brain craves evidence to support its beliefs. A 2019 study in Nature Neuroscience revealed that we're more likely to remember information that confirms our existing beliefs—a phenomenon called "confirmation bias." Use this to your advantage by actively collecting evidence that supports your new, empowering narrative. Keep a "victory log" of your achievements, no matter how small. When you notice yourself succeeding, pause to let that experience sink in—this helps strengthen the neural pathways associated with your new story.

The key to life is recognizing that you have the power to take action and create outcomes. If you’re stuck its because you believe you are not in control. As the Stoics taught us, events themselves are neutral—it's the meaning we assign to them that creates either suffering or peace. Marcus Aurelius captured this perfectly: "If you are pained by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment."

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