The therapeutic power of storytelling
Revisiting a way I found peace in the sandwich season
Dear friends,
Although I write for a living and think about words and phrasing and ideas all the time, sometimes I need to be reminded of the power of telling—and revising—our own stories.
I’m still learning how to do “summer break,” so I’ll let this week’s revisited post speak for itself.
Take care,
Sarah
Revisiting “Changing our stories”
(November 30, 2023)
Recently psychologist Jonathan Adler described the life-changing power of telling our own stories with intention. His focus wasn’t on writing them down or even sharing them at all, but more about the way we tell our stories to ourselves.
Adler described how these stories create our identities. And, perhaps most exciting, he shared how we have the ability to reframe our own stories and use them to make sense of our lives.
I couldn’t help but think what an important idea this is for those of us in the sandwich season. With multiple generations and major responsibilities vying for attention, our stories can easily take on themes of grief, frustration and not-enough-ness.
Before I share my personal experience, here are a few takeaways from Adler’s interview on the Hidden Brain podcast (link below):
Stories often contain themes that he calls “redemption sequences” and “contamination sequences.” Redemption sequences are stories with happy endings. Contamination sequences start positively but end negatively.
Themes matter. “In general, redemption sequences tend to support our psychological well-being,” Adler says, “while contamination sequences tend to be bad for our well-being.” (Please note: He also emphasizes that we should not feel pushed into turning everything into a redemption sequence. Life is more complex than that.)*
One way of determining whether our stories take on redemption or contamination themes depends on where we place our “chapter breaks.” For example, if a particular situation goes badly, is it possible to look beyond it to see how perhaps a few days/weeks/months/years later, the challenge actually leads to a more positive outcome?
Research shows that when we rewrite our stories, our attitudes can follow.
My rewrite experience
Adler’s ideas helped me understand something I experienced this year in my relationship with my mom, who passed away in August.
I mentioned in an earlier post that we had a somewhat challenging relationship involving a decades-long tendency to spar. We were entrenched in positions neither of us could articulate.
The story I told myself for years went something like, “I love my mom, but I can’t get along with her.” Part of that story manifested itself in how I planned visits home. My husband, son and I used to live in Washington state, so I would organize trips home to Minnesota so we spent no more than three nights at my parents’ house. After three nights, I could leave with hugs … after four nights, I’d still give hugs but usually departed under a dark cloud.
I thought that would be our story for all time. I am a woman with a mother who makes her crazy. I imagined her story was something like, I am a woman with a daughter who makes things difficult.
But this year something happened that caused us to rewrite our story.
She was hospitalized last spring, and Dad and I spent most of three days with her in a hospital room. While trying to figure out her prognosis, we told stories and laughed. Sometimes I cried. And at some point, Mom and I laid down our swords. For my part, it wasn’t that I consciously let anything go—it felt more like our tendency toward acrimony was lifted from us.
After her release from the hospital into hospice care, I wrote in my journal:
“I will look back on these 3 days at Sanford (Hospital) with a smile. … I’m so thankful for the concentrated time we had together. When was the last time we’d spent time together like that? Dad wasn’t grading papers and running to Hornbacher’s (grocery store). Mom wasn’t fussing about meal planning or who tracked in what or who should be helping set the table. I wasn’t running out to visit friends on a tight schedule. We all just … sat. … Maybe we all accepted each other at last.”
Mom and I got along for the final three months of her life.
It felt remarkable. And, oddly, even in the moment I had a sense that my mind was rewriting the story of Mom and me. Our story was evolving into one of a mom and daughter who loved spending time together, sharing spinach-salmon salads and catnaps.
I count the late blooming of our relationship as one of the most monumental blessings of my life. When I think of my mom now, the word “reconciliation” pops to mind and, along with it, “forgiveness”—both of her and myself.
Not only did we have the opportunity to rewrite our story in a manner that brings me peace now, but our revised story—or should I say our longer chapter—continues to reshape my memories and understandings of past events and situations.
Possibilities
Now, I understand that this type of plot twist doesn’t happen every day, and I am not trying to imply that a redemption-style ending is possible for every story.
But this experience is helping me consider other complicated parts of my sandwich season in a different light. Where do I put the chapter breaks in the rollercoaster journey I’m on with my son? What story do I tell of my career, which feels as if it’s on hold as I care for family?
For those of us in the sandwich generation, I believe Adler’s ideas bring hope.
These years are challenging, and the demands are many. But even when so much of life feels out of our control, even when we say our lives are being taken over by the needs of others, his work suggests that we have the ability to continue writing … and editing … and even changing our own stories.
And that can be life-changing.
>>You can hear the full interview, titled “Change Your Story, Change Your Life,” on the Hidden Brain podcast.<<
* From “Jonathan Adler featured on Hidden Brain Podcast,” Olin College of Engineering, 20 Nov 2023.
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