The Stories We Spin: How Coaching Works to Rewrite Them
Part of the human condition is that we love a good story, especially one in which we’re the main character. We’re hungry to know the role that we play and what will happen to us next. We live in an age where we can click the answers to a few quiz questions, and within seconds, discover which Schitt’s Creek character we are or what ice cream flavor best represents us. Maybe we just want the world to make sense, because a world that makes sense feels safer than one that doesn’t. Safety is pretty important to us, afterall, perched on the second tier of Maslow’s hierarchy, even if that safety comes at a cost. It’s no wonder, then, that we’re pretty good at telling ourselves all kinds of stories about our lives—even some that we believe to our core for a lifetime. But what can we do if they don’t actually serve us?
The morning of my 8th birthday was a hot and sticky one. Summer birthdays in general are a recipe for making a kid feel cheated, by the way: No school parties, no cupcakes in class, lots of friends away at camp. Once I hit grade school, I envied the birthday kids who got a surprise visit from our principal during class, complete with a happy birthday serenade and a small eraser of the lucky duck’s choosing. Sometimes they were even scented erasers in the shape of whatever they smelled like. Never mind the fact that I probably would have died of embarrassment had I ever been put in the spotlight like those kids; I was jealous all the same.
On this particular birthday morning, I had little expectation for a grand celebratory event — only one of my mom’s killer homemade birthday dinners with the family in our formal dining room. After that, a little gift-opening. What was uniquely special about this morning, though, was that my mom allowed me to eat Now and Laters on the way to day camp. She’s a dentist, which is what made this both uber-unusual and highly exciting for me. Not only were these things hard as rocks when you popped them in, but somehow after working them awhile, they’d melt into this unbelievably sticky ball of sugar that would wedge into the grooves of your teeth and live there for at least a decade. The candy that keeps on giving. I almost always failed to get the whole wrapper off because of how sticky they were; Who has the kind of time and patience to wait for that kind of goodness? So along with the sugar, I happily ingested plenty of waxy paper. You make decisions in life, and I felt solid on that one.
As we pulled into the parking lot of the church where I’d spend my day playing Uno and snacking on potato straws with the other kids my age, my mom confiscated my last four-pack of sour apple Now and Laters. I expected as much, but I was quick to make a firm request to have them back when she picked me up at the end of the day. It was my birthday, afterall, and the opportunity to eat this kind of candy was momentous. Clacking hurriedly through the parking lot in her heels and tossing the candy in her purse, she half-ass assured me that she would save them. My mom was almost always on a mission to do something or to be somewhere. I often felt like she had seven thousand things on her mind - and now that I’m a mom myself, I can assure you that she did in fact have seven thousand things on her mind. I knew she had pretty important stuff going on, but I felt certain she knew the level of importance this candy held in my 8-year-old mind and that she’d make good on her promise. After a quick wave goodbye, I joined a gaggle of kids, and she set off to work.
My butt had hardly hit the scorching leather seat of the car before I extended my palm expectantly for my candy that afternoon. It only took a glance at my mom’s face for me to know that candy was long gone. It had befallen the same fate as so many of my other treasures: kids menu “art” work, worm-holed acorns and weeds I’d picked from our backyard, necklaces made of dried pasta and yarn. My Now and Laters were on their way to a landfill.
To say I was livid is an understatement. I was fuming in disbelief and rage. Of ALL the days and of ALL the candies—WHY??!! She had promised me, and she hadn’t followed through…on my birthday, no less. So I did what many 8-year-olds, and admittedly some completely grown adults, do best. I threw a massive fit. I really gave it to my mom the whole car ride home. I wailed, I screamed, and once I was tired of exerting that level of energy, I assumed the age-old posture of resentment to ensure my feelings were still crystal clear: eyebrows deeply furrowed, bottom lip inside-out, and arms tightly folded across my chest. Punctuating my stance with intermittent sniffles, I was no rookie at this. I was the queen of holding a grudge and making it known. By the time we were home, my cheeks were blotchy from the crying, and what had started as anger was morphing into more of a sadness. I had spun a pretty convincing story in my head that I wasn’t important to my own mom. That what I wanted didn’t matter to her or anyone, really. Happy birthday to me.
Despite my display in the car, my mom quietly ushered me into the house and told me that I might want to go into the kitchen for a minute. No way, no how. The anger was bubbling back up. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of trying to give me a replacement candy or anything else to try to make up for what she’d done. Still, she kept trying to coax me into the kitchen. I finally stomped in there, just making it through the doorway before every single one of my friends leapt out from behind the linoleum countertop and yelled “SURPRISE!!!!!”
I was floored. Mortified. Grateful. Hot with shame. I was so many things at once that I felt like crying all over again. Instead, I buried my face in the refrigerator door to avoid showing my embarrassment. I did matter. The Now and Laters didn’t. I would be sure to apologize to my mom.
That (one and only ) surprise slumber party stands out in my memory for a few reasons. The biggest one, though, is that it was one of the first times I remember telling myself a story that was so powerful, yet so untrue. How many other times had this happened? Were there other stories I’d made up that made me feel that terrible while holding zero weight? It wasn’t lost on me in that moment, even at that age, that my perception of things wasn’t necessarily the reality of things, despite how very real it felt in the moment. I was lucky in that particular case to watch my story dissolve within about an hour of its inception, without any help from me. Other stories in my life have taken a whole lot longer and considerable effort on my part to dispel.
As fate would have it, that birthday was also when I was gifted my very first diary, and I began transferring the thoughts in my head onto the page. In unabashedly writing about my life to a captivated audience of one — moi — I found something very useful. I was able to see in black and white the stories I created about who I was and what I deserved. More importantly, I was able to tease out the ones that weren’t doing me any favors so that I could rewrite them. I’m not sure that would have been possible without the ability to see them right in front of me and a willingness to explore them.
You don’t have power over all the circumstances in your life. Often the setting of any good story is established before the main character ever makes an entrance. Most people let that setting dictate what their lives will be, because they’re blind to the power they do have. We all have power over the stories we make from our circumstances — the meaning we extract from them and ultimately, the life that we build with them as a foundation. And that’s the crux of good coaching.
Like a journal, a coaching relationship serves as a safe place to examine freely the stories, or perspectives, you have now. A great coach can then help you explore other perspectives that will serve you in building a meaningful life, based on what your stated goals are. They will collaborate with you, ask you powerful questions, show you your blind spots, and challenge your perceived limitations so that you can take strategic action toward that life. What do you really want? Who do you want to be? What impact do you want to have in the world? What do you really believe is possible? These are all questions that a lot of us spend little time truly considering at pivotal junctures in life, instead following some imaginary handbook of what others deem the path to success. Thankfully, it’s never too late to consider them. Effective coaching is a valuable tool to help you do that, as it offers a unique social construct that people don’t typically find in their day-to-day lives.
If you aren’t quite ready to pursue coaching, at least take with you with these nuggets:
Don’t ever underestimate the power of the stories you tell yourself. They’re the difference between the life you have now and the one you actually want.
Remember that you’re always the author.
Brush your teeth for at least an extra minute after eating Now and Laters.
If you are ready to pursue coaching and want to know more about it, schedule a free chemistry call with me HERE.
