(To listen to the recorded version of this post, click here.)
It started with a quote I saw just before my morning meditation:
“Owning our story and loving ourselves through the process is the bravest thing we will ever do.” — Brené Brown
Something about it stayed with me. Quiet, but persistent. I didn’t overanalyze it. I just breathed with it. And when I picked up my journal, the following words came pouring out.
What is my story? I mean, what does it actually mean to have one?
My life is made up of many stories. The story of my childhood. My teenage years. Early adulthood. Or maybe they’re not separate stories at all. Maybe they’re chapters in one massive, unfolding story that makes up me.
I think owning my story doesn’t mean I am my story. I used to think that though. Many, many moons ago. But thinking that way kept me stuck in a place of victimhood and powerlessness.
Except, of course, when it came to the positive pages in my story. Those, I was more than happy to claim. “Look, this is who I am.” But the painful parts? The messy pages? I kept those at a distance.
The truth is, I’m so much more than any single page. I’m the cover and the binding of my story, which is always expanding. And as the author, I get to choose what belongs inside. I could tear out the stories that no longer fit, the negative ones.
They belong. They taught me the most. They’re the tattered pages that gave me the push I needed to grow and change.
So, owning my story isn’t about being defined by it. It’s about being informed by it. Letting it guide me but not limit me.
Because at the end of the day…
I’m not the story of a 12-year-old girl who was told she’d be pregnant by 14 because she had her first real kiss.
I’m not the story of the teenage girl who tried everything to fit in and still felt like she wasn’t good enough.
I’m not the story of the woman who stayed far too long in emotionally abusive relationships until she built up the courage to leave.
I’m none of those stories. And I wouldn’t dare rip out their pages because those pages hold the information that has helped me to become the woman that I am today.
The woman who knows who she is at her core.
Who knows she is more than enough.
Who likes her own company and wishes to share that space with someone special.
Who knows she has the power to say “no thank you” to the people and the situations that don’t fit her… rather than trying to mold and meld to fit others.
And most importantly, the woman who is using her story to help others own theirs.
To stake claim to their agency and beautiful voice.
That is my truest story. The one I’m proud of. The one I own.
And the moral of my story? It’s still being written. So, stay tuned.
And I want to send a special, loving “thank you” to my friend Denise for sending me this amazing meme the very same day I wrote this journal entry. Talk about validating synchronicity.
***Language warning, but also a truth bomb***
If you’ve ever felt stuck inside a story that no longer fits, one that keeps looping in your mind long after the moment has passed, you are not broken. That’s your brain doing its job. It’s trying to protect you. Trying to make sense of what happened.
Trying to predict what might hurt again.
Your brain is wired to keep you safe, not necessarily to keep you free.
But freedom comes when you realize this:
You are the one holding the pen.
And you can choose to tell it in a new way.
Not by pretending it didn’t happen.
Not by tearing out the pages.
But by holding them gently and saying, “I’m still here. And I get to choose what happens next.”
So, my kickass, awesome friend, how will you own your story?
