The Hidden Story
This week I attended International Women’s Day where the focus was on telling your story and bringing your authentic self. That for progress to happen we needed to start sharing our trials, our challenges, and our feelings with one another — not to weaken our message but to show our shared experiences. To help others realize that we are all facing challenges, all experiencing emotional ups-and-downs, and all having moments that we feel excluded.
While I’d heard it all before, I hadn’t listened or really internalized what was being said. My reaction has always been more of a knee-jerk reaction versus a thoughtful exploration of what this means for me personally. I’ve acknowledged that everyone else has a story to tell, but when it has come to my story I glossed over it in favor of telling stories of people who “had something to say” or “lived an impactful life.”
It was in that moment that I realized I have been telling myself that my story isn’t one worth telling. Because it isn’t filled with major traumatic events or brilliant moments of insight. Because I haven’t lived all over the world. Because I haven’t been wildly successful against my dreams and goals. Because I haven’t risen to the top if my field or become the recognized thought leader I want to be. Because, because, because. Because I don’t have anything worth telling or a story that anyone is interested in.
The realization that I didn’t value my experiences, my perspective, or my journey has left me shell-shocked. I cried all the way home from the event and went to bed because I didn’t want to face my family and most of all because I didn’t want to face myself. I cried harder when I realized that I still don’t.
How am I supposed to raise kids who are confident in who they are? How can I help them see how capable they are? How can I help them overcome the challenges that will inevitably come at them? How can I do anything when I am constantly questioning myself and my value?
While logic tells me that I do have a story, a voice, and value my inner voice seems to whisper something much differently to me. And this is the voice I believe. Not because it is the so-called devil on my shoulder, but because it is the angel leaning in and whispering, “You know, it’s true. We aren’t that interesting or memorable. We don’t have anything worth telling.”
It is a frustrating place to be as it sounds like the voice of someone who is depressed, but I don’t think I am. I think I am a realist who knows that painting a rosy picture won’t change the reality of who and what I am. And yet…
And yet, my heart whispers in my ear, “But what if you do have a story and you just have hidden it away?”
