Inside my head, stories rattle around. They are stories about me, woven by storytellers other than myself. I have hated some of these stories, particularly the ones about me crying whenever I drew the Old Maid card, or how as a baby, I pulled my sister’s hair. As I grew up the stories changed, and I became the “responsible” one who didn’t rebel, made good grades and could be counted on to keep the peace. Over time, all these stories created the role I played in the larger story of my family.
No one, though, has the right to tell us who we are. We own the copyright to the narrative of ourselves. Our stories, like our lives, are constantly changing. We decide what content is significant and what we can let go. What a shock it was when I realized that I held the red pen in my hand, and I could strike from my story what was not me any longer. Suddenly, my story was filled with more red than black ink. It was also filled with blank pages.
As I searched for my own voice among all the voices of all the storytellers of my life, I realized how all those stories told about me had affected me. They now remain in the background, as my own, unique story takes centerstage. Picking up the pen to write our own story is a courageous act. It is an act of faith as we believe in ourselves enough to embrace our authentic story. If we don’t tell it, it won’t be told, for it is ours alone to tell. Take heart and tell your true story, especially to yourself.
~Lisa Kiel
