Two years ago, I was crazy nervous as I launched my book into the world. I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach as I sat in my office, rehearsing my little talk and staring at the Zoom screen as people’s faces began filling it.
I was excited, and a bit terrified. Ok, maybe a lot terrified. I’d felt that mixture of adrenaline and fear in other big moments. But this was different. This was not a presentation to policymakers or nonprofit professionals. This was not a big race or other outdoor challenge. This was me, putting myself out there, in a way that felt as if I was standing in front of the world completely naked.
Sharing my story also felt arrogant and selfish and flashy and everything my parents taught me not to be. Yet I couldn’t help myself. Something kept telling me to do it.
I know how much stories matter. Books, movies, and songs have changed me, inspired me, and, most often, resonated and connected me to someone who has felt the same, done the same, or known the same. They made me feel less alone.
I have repeated this statement so many times: Stories matter. And I realize, perhaps, I keep saying it not to persuade you, but to convince myself that it means my story, too.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve had conversations with professional colleagues, friends, and others I hadn’t met before who have told me, “You have a great story. I love your musings. People can learn from you.” In one conversation, I was so perplexed by their interest that I literally asked, “Why are you talking to me?” It took several minutes, more questions and conversation to see the simple connection between my story and their intended audience. I have a human story. We are all human.
Even though I know stories matter, I still question the value of sharing my own. I don’t say this as some form of false modesty or to get you to prime my ego; it is also what I have heard from others. We believe our stories do not matter. I’m nothing special. Someone else went through worse, or did more, or whatever comparison argument we tell ourselves.
I have told myself the same arguments. But this is what I know…or am slowly learning.
Of course, there are others who have survived deadly cancers. I know people who have come close to death and narrowly escaped. And plenty who have accomplished much more than I can ever imagine. (And that’s just in my family.) When I let the imposter feelings take over, I find myself thinking, “You’re stealing their thunder. You’re making it about you when they have a more powerful story. You haven’t done that much.”
But when I dig deeper and stop letting the judgmental voice drive the conversation in my head, I hear something else. “You are not stealing anything—only sharing your version of the human story. You are holding out your heart for anyone who needs it.”
I know stories matter. It is the way we get to know each other at the basic human level. Underneath the individual details is a shared truth. A shared humanity. I believe that by sharing our stories, we discover the connecting threads between us. And in that connection, we feel seen and heard. The storyteller and the listener. And to me, feeling seen and heard is one of the greatest gifts we can give to one another.
It is the why behind this experiment: to test what I know to be true and if it applies to me and my story, too. Even if it causes heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and nasty grams from my judgy voice telling me to be quiet every time I send these out.
I ramble in hopes to uncover that connection–that sense of feeling seen and heard. I hope you feel it, too.
From my heart to yours…
