Part IX: The Story I Tell Myself.

Our dog sometimes lifts his head quite suddenly. As if he has noticed something. A sound. A scent. Another dog somewhere in the distance. Most of the time, he’s right. My brain does something rather similar. The only difference is that it sometimes sounds the alarm even when nothing at all has happened.

I’m sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee, scrolling through LinkedIn. New jobs. Promotions. Awards. Successful projects. Inspirational quotes. Motivational speakers. Articles about resilience. Mental health. Self-care.

I am genuinely happy for other people’s success. I truly am. And yet, every now and then, I find myself wondering where all the stories have gone in which life simply isn’t going according to plan. Perhaps they still exist. Perhaps they are simply shared less often.

Before I close the app, I take one last look at who has viewed my profile. One name catches my eye. Someone I worked with many years ago. The very next moment, my mind begins writing a story. Perhaps this person is wondering what became of me. Perhaps they’ve mentioned to a former colleague that I’m still unemployed. That I’ve even run out of unemployment benefits. That…

“Stop.” The voice inside my head is surprisingly clear this time. “Enough.”

Our dog lifts his head. He glances over at me for a moment. Then rests it quietly back on his paws. Apparently, nothing extraordinary has happened. And, in fact, he’s right.

Nothing has happened. Except inside my own head. I can’t help laughing at myself. It’s remarkable how creative our minds can be. They write stories. Invent conversations. Direct entire films. And the most astonishing part? They don’t need a single piece of evidence.

The truth is, I have no idea what this person is thinking. Perhaps they’re simply pleased to see something I’ve written again. Perhaps they’ve been reading my essays. Perhaps they only wanted to stop by and say hello.

I simply don’t know. And yet, my mind had already turned it into a complete story. That’s when something dawned on me. I can’t control what other people think about me. I can’t control what they talk about. I can’t even control whether they think about me at all.

What I can influence is the story I tell myself. And that story matters far more than I ever realised. Because one day, it will become part of my biography. I could give this chapter titles like: “A Spectacular Failure.” Or: “The Right Person at the Wrong Time.” Or: “The Year Everything Changed.” But somehow, none of those titles feels true.

Not long ago, I found myself wondering why we human beings are often so much harsher with ourselves than we are with anyone else. Shame is a curious emotion. It often doesn’t begin because someone else is judging us. It begins because we imagine they might. And sometimes we condemn ourselves long before anyone else ever has.

Suddenly, I asked myself a simple question. If a close friend were telling me this very same story… would I speak to her the way I’m speaking to myself? Of course not. I’d tell her she’s going through a difficult season. That her professional worth hasn’t disappeared. That one chapter of life can never define an entire human being.

So why is it sometimes so much harder to offer myself that same kindness? Perhaps that’s what self-compassion really is. Not convincing ourselves that everything is perfect. But treating ourselves with the same fairness we so naturally extend to other people.

I believe every life tells a story. The real question isn’t only what happens to us. It’s also the role we choose to give ourselves within that story. Perhaps I don’t need to be the heroine. Perhaps it’s enough to stop casting myself as my own antagonist.

By now, our dog is awake. I pick up his favourite toy. He leaps to his feet immediately. His tail is wagging with unstoppable enthusiasm. To him, it makes no difference whether I have a job. What my LinkedIn profile looks like. Or what story I’m telling myself today.

I throw the ball. He races after it. Without overthinking. Without comparing himself. Without wondering how he looks while he’s running.I find myself smiling. Perhaps every good story begins exactly like this. Not with the question, “What will other people think of me?” But with the decision, “What story do I want to tell about myself?”