The Stories We Tell Ourselves: When Identity Becomes a Cage

We all have a story we tell about ourselves. Some version of this is who I am. Maybe we don’t say it out loud, but it’s there, in the background of every choice, every relationship,
every time we say yes when we mean no, every time we stay too long or leave too soon.

Sometimes that story is survival.
Sometimes it’s a shield.
And sometimes...without even realizing it...it becomes a cage.

Most of our stories aren’t written by us. They’re passed down. Etched into us by the people who raised us, the culture that shaped us, the pain we weren’t ready to feel.

“My needs are too much.”
“I’m the fixer.”
“I always mess things up.”
“I have to prove I’m worth loving.”
“I’m the strong one.”
“I don’t get to fall apart.”

These stories don’t arrive as full sentences. They arrive as patterns. The kind you don’t even notice anymore, until your body reacts before your brain does. Until you’re halfway through apologizing for something that wasn’t your fault...again.

The most dangerous stories are the ones that sound like the truth. Because when a story fits just well enough, when it’s familiar and echoes past pain, you stop questioning it.

You start living like it’s a fact.

And if that story says you’re unworthy? You’ll find ways to prove it. Overworking. People-pleasing. Choosing partners who confirm your worst fears. It’s not sabotage. It’s repetition.
The nervous system recreates what it knows.

There’s a difference between a story that holds you and a story that holds you back. Some narratives help us survive. They gave us structure when the world felt chaotic.

But survival mode isn’t meant to be permanent. At some point, the story starts getting in the way. You want intimacy, but your story says vulnerability is dangerous. You want rest, but your story says you have to earn it first. You want to be seen, but your story says you’re too much. And now you’re exhausted. Stuck between who you’ve been and who you might be if you let that story go.

Here’s the terrifying part of growth: letting go of your story might feel like letting go of yourself. Because even if it hurts, at least it’s known.
At least you know the lines.
At least you know how to play the part.

But healing asks for a rewrite. It asks you to interrupt the script. To pause in the middle of a reaction and ask:
Is this actually true? Or just familiar?
Is this the only way? Or just the only way I’ve known?

This isn’t about slapping a new affirmation over an old wound. This isn’t about pretending you’re fine or manifesting your way out of trauma. It’s slower than that. Quieter. It’s noticing. It’s saying: This story kept me alive. But maybe I don’t need it anymore.

It’s holding compassion for the version of you who wrote it. And gently, without forcing, starting to write something new. A story where you’re not the problem to fix. Where you’re allowed to want. Where safety doesn’t require performance. Where love isn’t earned. It’s received.

You will fall back into the old lines. You will forget. You will play the part again, because it’s automatic. But you’ll also catch it sooner.
You’ll pause.
You’ll get curious.
You’ll remind yourself: This isn’t me. It’s a story I was handed.
And you’ll begin again.

That’s how the rewrite happens. Line by line. Pattern by pattern. Truth by trembling truth.

Until one day, you look back at the old script and realize you don’t need it anymore. Because you finally know you were never just the story.

You were the author all along.

I hope you enjoy reading this blog post. If you'd like to explore it more deeply, those harsh inner narratives, I have something to guide you.