Is It True?

My partner and I are approaching our 25th anniversary. And while our relationship is grounded and loving today, the early years were anything but smooth.

They were tumultuous – a roller coaster ride of closeness and conflict, passion and pain. Yes, there was love, but there was also a lot of emotional chaos – a lot of it, I’ll admit, stirred up by me.

One of the most charged dynamics happened every time she left town. She traveled frequently for work, and when she was on the road, the communication would slow down. It did not disappear entirely, but it wasn’t as frequent or consistent as I wanted. And I had unknowingly created an internal scoreboard – a secret quantity of calls or texts that, if met, meant I was important. And if not? It meant I wasn’t.

She was busy, distracted, and caught up in the moment, especially with ADHD pulling her focus in a hundred directions. But the story I told myself was this – I don’t matter to her. I’m not important. If I were, she’d make more of an effort.

And once that story took hold, it wreaked havoc.

I would spiral. I’d pull away emotionally, shut down, or act out in subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways. I didn’t just feel hurt – I believed the hurt meant something about my worth. And that belief took over. It picked at the scabs of an old childhood wound – growing up feeling invisible, uncared for, unloved. It wasn’t just about her absence. It was about the meaning I made about her absence. That’s what made it unbearable.

Does this sound familiar?

Have you ever caught yourself reacting not to what actually happened – but to the story you told yourself about what happened?

If so, you’re not alone. There is nothing wrong with you. You’re not broken.

But here is the thing – the moment you begin to separate fact from fiction, you take back your power. You stop reliving the past. You start responding to the present.

And that’s what saved our relationship.

We talked about it. We slowed it down. We did the hard, healing work of separating the facts from the story I created about them. I learned to recognize when I was in a story. My partner learned how to meet me with compassion instead of defense. We both learned to stay in it together.

That story no longer runs our relationship. And that healing began the moment I realized that what had happened and what I had made it mean were not the same thing.

What’s the Difference Between What Actually Happened and the Story You Told Yourself?

Let’s pause here and get clear about something.

There’s what happened – and then there’s the story you told yourself about what happened.

It sounds simple. But this is the split that can save your relationships, your peace of mind, and even your sense of self.

In my case, the fact was this – my partner didn’t reach out as much as I wanted when she was away.

The story I told myself was: She doesn’t care. I don’t matter. I’m not a priority in her life.

Facts are neutral. They’re observable. If it were a movie, they’re what the camera would capture – no commentary and no soundtrack. Just what’s visible: the missed text, the canceled meeting, the expression on someone’s face.

Stories, on the other hand, are layered. They’re colored by our emotions, shaped by our past, and designed – often unconsciously – to protect us from pain.

And here’s the thing: when we don’t slow down enough to distinguish one from the other, the story becomes the truth we live inside.

We start reacting not to the actual event but to our interpretation of it. And if that interpretation is rooted in old wounds? We end up reenacting the past, over and over again – hurting ourselves and others in the process.

How the Stories We Tell Ourselves Show Up in the Workplace – Especially for The Firsts

These stories don’t just show up in our intimate relationships. They spill into every corner of our lives—into the way we relate to ourselves, how we move through the world, and how we may show up at work.

So, how might the stories we tell ourselves show up in a professional setting?

Just like in our personal lives, these stories often begin with something simple – someone speaking over us, a delayed response, a piece of feedback delivered without warmth.

For marginalized professionals navigating predominantly white, cisgender, or male-dominated spaces, these ambiguous moments feel anything but neutral. They feel loaded. And so, we start filling in the blanks.

• They don’t value my input.

• I’m being overlooked again.

• They said I belong here, but they don’t actually believe it.

And if you’re someone I call one of The Firsts – the first in your family to graduate college, the first woman of color in leadership, the first queer person to come out in your workplace – these moments land even harder.

Because you’re already navigating systems that weren’t built with you in mind, you’re constantly interpreting subtle cues for safety. So, your stories become strategies. Strategies to brace, to prepare, to self-protect.

These are what I call safety stories. They’re not necessarily false – but they’re not necessarily entirely rooted in fact either. They live in the in-between space. The space where you don’t have enough data to feel certain, so your nervous system writes a narrative that helps you feel more in control.

But over time, these stories don’t just shield you. They can also shrink you.

You hesitate to speak up. You second-guess your instincts. You avoid feedback or overcompensate. And even if the people around you never meant harm, the story you’re telling yourself says so, and it impacts how you show up.

This is why separating what happened from what we make it mean is essential, not just in our relationships but also in the places where we work, lead, and belong.

Your Story Is Trying to Protect You

We don’t create these stories out of nowhere. We create them to make sense of what hurts. We create them to survive.

Especially if you’ve lived through trauma – relational, cultural, systemic, generational – you may have needed these stories to feel some sense of safety and control. To fill in the gaps where no one gave you context. To create meaning in the face of confusion or silence.

But what once protected you may now be limiting you.

When I was a child, no one was there for me. Not in the ways that mattered. My parents would often drop my brothers and me off at my grandmother’s house for days at a time—sometimes longer—with no extra clothes, no toothbrushes, and no reassuring message from our parents that they’d be back soon. Much of the time, my grandmother wasn’t there either. We’d be left to fend for ourselves, picking through neighborhood trash cans to collect pop bottles to cash in on and buy food, and doing our best not to draw attention to ourselves for fear of being victimized in one way or another.

The nights were the worst. The house sat in a city that didn’t feel safe, and every creak, every rustle outside, sent my heart racing and my eyes and ears on hyperalert. I was convinced someone was breaking in to get us. And sometimes, those fears weren’t imagined—they were real. What child should have to navigate that kind of fear without a single adult around?

We weren’t just unsupervised. We were unprotected. Unseen. Unwanted. And when no one explains what’s happening to you, you start to explain it to yourself.

So, I learned to fill in the blanks. I made sense of what felt senseless, the only way I could—with stories. And I did so with stories that often started with “It must be because I’m not enough. Not lovable enough. Not important enough. Not worthy enough.”

That script didn’t disappear just because I grew up. It followed me into relationships, work environments, and every room where I didn’t feel seen.

I see this all the time with the people I work with, especially those who are what I call The Firsts.

How Trauma Blurs the Line Between Reality and What We Make It Mean

When you’ve lived through trauma – especially relational, cultural, or developmental trauma – your interpretations aren’t just shaped by the moment. They’re shaped by what you’ve survived.

And this is where things get complicated.

You’re not just responding to the missed text or the tone of the email. You’re responding to every moment you’ve ever felt abandoned, overlooked, or dismissed. Your body doesn’t distinguish between past and present – it only recognizes threats. So when something feels familiar, it reacts as if what is happening now is precisely what happened in the past, over and over again.

This is how trauma blurs the line between what is happening and what we make it mean.

We don’t just remember – we relive unless we pause. Unless we inquire. Unless we do the work to ask: Is this moment about now? Or is this about something older that still hurts?

How Your Body Signals When You’re Caught in a Story

You might be wondering: But if I feel it in my body, doesn’t that make it real?

Yes – and. Your body is wise. It’s your barometer, your compass. But it doesn’t always differentiate between danger and discomfort, between the present and the past.

When a story is activated, your body may react with urgency. Your chest may feel tight.  You may experience shallow breathing.  You may feel a sensation of heat in your face and tension in your body.  You may feel an impulse to run or shut down.

These sensations don’t mean something is wrong with you. They mean something matters. Your system is bringing your attention to the moment.

But here’s the invitation: pause. Before you act, ask:

What just got activated in me?

What am I making this mean?

What am I telling myself right in this moment?

And is it the only possible explanation?

Your body can be a signal – it does not lie, but it may be showing you a deeper truth that needs to be examined. When you pause between sensation and interpretation, you create space to choose. 

To respond rather than react. 

To get curious instead of shutting down.  

To seek clarity before spiraling into assumptions.

To stay present and breathe rather than replay an old narrative from the past. 

That’s the power of somatic awareness.  It doesn’t erase your story, but it puts you back in charge of how you move forward from it.

A Step-by-Step Practice to Separate Fact from Fiction in Your Mind

Here’s how you begin the practice of reclaiming your power:  

1. Name the Fact

What actually happened? Strip it down to observable behavior.

→ My manager didn’t comment on my presentation.

→ My friend didn’t text back after I opened up.

2. Notice the Story

What did you make that fact mean?

→ They think I’m not smart enough.

→ I overshared. I pushed them away.

3. Connect to the Wound

What does this moment echo in your past?

→ The silence I experienced growing up.

→ The feeling of being invisible or unworthy.

4. Listen to Your Body

Where do you feel the charge?

→ Tension in your jaw? 

→ Nausea in your gut? 

→ A sudden urge to defend or disappear?

5. Expand the Possibilities

What else might be true?

→ Maybe they were distracted. 

→ Maybe they assumed I was fine.

→  Maybe this isn’t about me at all.

6. Choose Your Response

Now that you’ve slowed down, how do you want to move?

→ Speak up. 

→ Ask a question. 

→ Offer yourself grace instead of blame.

It is not about overriding your instincts. It’s about honoring your whole truth – including the parts of you that are still in the process of healing.

Why Separating Fact from Story is the Key to Power

When you learn to separate what happened from the story you tell yourself, you stop being a passive character in someone else’s narrative.

You become the author again.

You no longer react from the pain of your past – you respond from the clarity of your presence. And from this place, you can make decisions that are aligned, not just protective.

You stop building your life around fear.

You start building it around truth.

Once you can split the fact from the fiction, something powerful happens.

You’re no longer trapped inside a story that was written by your trauma.

You get to write your own.

That’s exactly what I had to learn to do in my own relationship. When I finally stopped reacting to the old story—I don’t matter, I’m not important, I’ll always be left—and started separating what was real from what was remembered, everything shifted. I wasn’t just rewriting my story with my partner. I was rewriting the story I had been telling myself since childhood.

And that changed everything.

In my next blog, we’ll explore what it means to own your story – consciously, courageously, and completely. Because the ultimate freedom isn’t just separating what happened from what you made it mean.

It’s reclaiming the pen and choosing what happens next.