I have my old stories. You have yours. We all have them. It’s how we learned to make sense of the world around us, and sometimes still do.

These old stories about what’s happened to me in the past often continue to rule how I perceive and react to things in the present. I may have constructed the stories to help me understand painful or confusing circumstances. Or they may have been a way for me to cope with difficult or perplexing life events. And then, over time, I got stuck in those stories and they got in the way of my joy.

One of the musicians in the church Ed and I attend, not only sings joyfully, but his entire being radiates joy.

Last Sunday, we thanked him and asked what his secret was: “How is it that you can project such joy every time we see you?”

Here’s what he said.

“I was in a near-constant state of suicidal depression for a very long time. What got me out of that depression and keeps me out is this: I feel my feelings deeply, but I let go of the stories behind them.”

I’ve been fortunate to not suffer from long bouts of depression. But our musician’s approach for getting out and staying out of his depressed state provided a valuable reminder about the power of my old stories that lurk just beneath the surface.

Probably my most cherished old trauma story, one that I’ve told myself over and over during the course of my life, is that my family let me down and I had to take care of myself.

I grew up believing from a very young age that no one would take care of me, and that I was the only one I could ever really depend on. The star of my story was me being strong and invulnerable against the world. This story did give me the strength to cope with managing my life when I was, in fact, quite young and alone. But later in life, long after these conditions no longer existed, that story still led me to create a façade of strength that often kept me from vulnerably opening myself to others. Of course, soon my story became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Quite literally, my story did help protect me at one point in my life. It kept me safe, allowed me to survive. I’m not at all surprised that for years I fought hard to keep the walls around me strong and impenetrable.

So should I now let go of that story? If I believe the masses of experts on the web telling me how to do this, it’s as simple as becoming aware of my story and then making the choice to let it go. Try Googling “Letting Go of Your Story.” It’s utterly remarkable how many therapists are saying the same thing: Just make the choice and let it go.

If it were that simple, I wouldn’t keep hearing the common complaint we’ve all heard over and over again: “I’ve been in therapy. I’ve done my work. But I still keep falling into my old destructive patterns.”

My take on this is that the moment I think I have let go of my old stories, they will find a way to burst forth when I least expect them. This is because I don’t believe it’s possible to ever completely leave my stories behind. My life has been far too intertwined with them for too long.

Instead of assuming I have truly let go of my old story, I choose to always know that it’s there, under the surface, waiting to emerge and trap me into my old patterns. And when it shows itself, as it still sometimes does, I choose to smile at it and invite it to stay where it is.

And what about the musician at our church?

I’m guessing he’s still very aware of the power of those stories that brought him down. Maybe by “letting go,” he means that he no longer gives them power to do so, while knowing they will always be with him.

But I’ll ask him about it the next time I see him.

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This