Changing the Narrative: How Writing Helps me Redirect the Stories I Tell Myself
Writing changes the narratives you have about yourself and others.

I’m reading this new book and it’s really validating whatever it is I’ve been doing for the past couple years.
Well, I know what I’ve been doing — sort of. It really just depends on the day as to whether I’m clear on it or not.
Today, as in right now, I’m writing and using storytelling as a way to better understand myself, my motivations, and the motivations of others.
And I’m using writing as a way to change the narratives I have about myself and other people.
It makes life a lot easier — to break apart the thoughts that harm me and replace them with ones that serve me. And it helps me resolve confusion over unsettling interactions, like the one I had with an extended family member a couple weeks ago.
I have had little to no contact with this relative for most of my life. From what I’d been told, she was a communist who had ties to Russia, and was followed by government officials for much of the time she lived in Canada. Apparently relatives who visited her were followed as well. Yikes, hey?
So she didn’t come around much, in part because of her inflammatory political views, and also because she had a reputation of being a lot of work. The story goes that she was youngest of three and was catered to most of her life. So what she wanted she got, and everyone else went without. Even when it came to food during the depression.
All I really knew of her was that she was a relative of mine who had some wild views. And I heard other stories, some as of recent through the familial grapevine that spoke of her moving back to Europe at some point, and living and working there. So suffice it to say she wasn’t even in the country for much of my early life.
So when I got a call from her a few months ago, asking if she could stay at my place, I said yes. I was interested in getting to know her on my own terms, not just based on other people’s beliefs and experiences. And her 90 something-year-old friend forgot about the accommodation arrangements they had made the week before, so she had nowhere else to go.
I’m glad we were able to accommodate her, because she almost fainted due to dehydration while here. We were able to make sure she drank water and got her return flight home booked for her. And truth be told, I had a nice time. I really enjoyed her stories and the visit overall. (You can read about it on my Instagram.)
But things were quite different during her last stay with us. Her sister had passed away, and she called requesting to stay with us again. I immediately said yes. She had other family members to stay with, but she said that because they hadn’t offered, she felt more comfortable staying with us. And considering our last visit was so pleasant, I was cool with it.
Since this was a sad time, I was keen on ensuring everyone in my family was taken care of — not just her. She flew in, as did my aunt, uncle, and cousin — all on the same day. It took a bit of shuttling back and forth from airports and hotels, but we got everyone picked up and settled.
But things with this particular relative of mine were much different this time around. There was a shift in the attitude — and I’m assuming it was because she was feeling rattled due to the funeral (assumptions are never a good idea, I know. Read my thoughts about them here.) She was super ego-y, which I’m chalking up to her feeling vulnerable and fearful of her own mortality (another assumption.) I have compassion for that scary point in a person’s life — I think of that stuff and it rattles me to the core at times. Plus she had lost her sister, which is obviously a difficult thing to go through at any age.
But this time she was mean. She was subtly shading people, trying to pick people apart and shit talk them. And I just felt really uncomfortable around her. Like get-me-outta-here uneasy.
“Maybe it’s me,” I thought. While this was the funeral of her sister we were all set to attend, it was also my grandma’s sister. The grandma who I never got to meet. The one who died of brain cancer when my dad was 3 years old — a fact that has haunted me and many other family members for years. I forever believed that if she had lived, things between my dad and I would have been better. Maybe we could have had a more loving relationship. Perhaps a lot of people wouldn’t have suffered to the extent that they did.
So I was feeling pretty emotional myself, and thought maybe I was giving off shitty vibes. I was on edge, and when that happens I crave order and control.
Case in point: I don’t like to be late. So when it took a long time to leave the house trying to get everyone in the car, I was rattled. I didn’t like the idea of my family waiting around on the street for me to pick them up. It felt wrong, and I know it wouldn’t make me feel very loved if someone had done that to me.
So we started driving, and together with the assistance of Siri and my mom, we contacted the hotel to tell them we would be late. Done and done. Mission accomplished. I felt better.
But then this relative started to shame me for caring (I’ve got some things to say about shame here.) She was commenting about how I was a “city person.” (Do city people care more??) For “making a big deal” about being late. Even in the restaurant — directly across the table from me — she made fun of me for the level of concern I had for my family. In front of my family.
And it didn’t stop there. She made snarky comments over the next two days, and as my husband witnessed, rolled her eyes at me and made faces as I talked with my family after the funeral.
I couldn’t figure it out: why was I the one she was attacking? The one who picked her up, and accommodated her when no one else could or would? How did I become the target of her bitterness?
I care about people. And the narrative I’m telling myself in regard to that is that it’s a really good thing to care about others. My husband even reminded me through no uncertain terms that the fact that I care about other people is a beautiful thing. And I needed that reminder because having someone try to minimize me during a stressful time was leading me to believe otherwise.
And yes, she’s elderly and perhaps her brain functioning is slowly declining, causing her to act out in bizarre and aggressive ways. And maybe she’s really worked up about the loss of her sister: I can have compassion for that.
But maybe it’s simply due to the fact that this is what she is really like — perhaps this is what everyone warned me about when I took on the task of accommodating her.
Regardless of why it happened, I’ve learned a lot through redirecting the default narrative I had about myself in this scenario — that there is something wrong with me because she rejected me to such a degree. I’ve learned that I can’t take ownership of every single bad interaction, because I can’t own the actions of others.
A lot of books and new age thought leaders will tell you otherwise. They would say that I brought this on through the negative stress vibes I was omitting. But my need to be OK mentally says fuck that. Sure I was stressed out and feeling vulnerable — but that doesn’t mean it’s OK for someone to gang up on me for feeling that way.
It’s really important to not try to make people feel like shit. Especially those who go out of their way to help you. That’s what this whole thing has taught me.
And I know that people do strange things when they are suffering. But we can’t be punching bags for the ways in which people grieve. We can’t enable abusive behaviors, in any form. Because then we’re saying, “I am a piece of shit — feel free to hurt me.” And I am not a piece of shit. (You can read about my journey to that realization here)
This has all been a slap in the face reminder to hold myself accountable for the way I carry myself, both in conversation and in thought. It’s important to show kindness to the people who show you kindness. And it’s important to realize that the need to criticize others is most often due to the fact that we ourselves feel weak and scared. We unknowingly desire other people to feel the pain we feel, so we don’t feel so alone.
If you’re feeling weak and scared and alone, share your story. Write about it. Don’t bottle it up until it bursts out like a can of carbonated, high fructose pessimism and anger.
Be loving, and you will be loved. And be kind to yourself, by way of changing the narratives you have about yourself.
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Andrea Scoretz is a Huffington Post blogger and freelance writer who creates soul-centric blog posts and newsletters for health and wellness coaches. Check her out via mustlovecrows.com
