The Stories We Live By

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the stories we carry, not the ones we tell others, but the quiet ones we tell ourselves. The ones we live by, even when we don’t realise it.

The story that says we’re too much. Or not enough. The story that whispers “you should be further along by now.”

The story that started long before we knew we were writing it.

I’ve been inside those stories. I’ve believed them. And I’ve learned how to begin again.

This isn’t a guide. It’s not advice.

It’s just my reflection on what it means to live, break, question, and re-author.

We are all living inside a story.

Some of those stories were handed to us, before we even had the words to say no. Others we picked up quietly, without realising, in moments of shame or exhaustion or fear. And some, we wrote ourselves, maybe not in ink, but in repeated thoughts, whispered beliefs, and the choices we made when no one was watching.

I know this not just because I’ve studied it. I know it because I’ve lived it.

As a woman. As a mother. As a daughter. As someone who tried so hard to get it right that I nearly lost sight of who I was.

There was a time when I believed the story that I wasn’t good enough.

That I was failing, at motherhood, at life, at being the woman I thought I should be.

That something in me was broken because I didn’t feel the way I thought I was supposed to feel.

There were moments when I was surrounded by love and still felt completely alone.

Moments when I smiled for others but was quietly falling apart inside.

Moments when my body was sending every signal that I needed rest, care, help, and I still believed I had to hold it all together.

I’ve lived those chapters. And I’ve rewritten them.

Not by pretending they didn’t happen, but by finally asking who wrote them in the first place.

Stories Feel Safe, Even When They Hurt

It took me a long time to realise that the stories we live by aren’t necessarily true. They’re just familiar. And what’s familiar often feels safe, even if it keeps us small. Even if the story is “I’m too emotional,” “I’m not cut out for this,” or “I should be better by now”, we hold onto it, because the alternative is stepping into uncertainty. Into possibility. Into the unknown.

And when you’re already stretched thin, sometimes even hope can feel like too much to carry.

I Didn’t Write This

So many of the stories I carried weren’t mine. They came from school, from culture, from my childhood, from expectations wrapped in love that didn’t always feel like love. The story that I should be grateful, quiet, composed. That success was something you earned through perfection. That being tired was a sign of weakness. That good mothers don’t feel anger or resentment.

No one said these things out loud. But I heard them. I felt them. And they shaped me.

The Moment Everything Paused

Sometimes life forces you to pause.

For me, that moment came wrapped in chaos: a screaming child, sleepless nights, and deep, aching loneliness.

And somewhere in that mess, I started to hear the voice I’d been living by:

“You’re not doing enough.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“You’re not good enough.”

"You are not worthy."

"You don't deserve this."

And for the first time, I paused and asked: Says who?

Curiosity Saved Me

The moment I stopped judging myself and started getting curious, everything shifted.

What if these stories were never mine?

What if the shame I carried was actually just grief for the mother I thought I had to be?

What if the anger I felt was just love with nowhere to go?

When I started asking softer questions, I found a softer version of me. A version who didn’t need to be perfect. Just present.

Writing a Different Ending

Rewriting doesn’t mean pretending. It means choosing again. Instead of “I’m failing,” I began to tell myself:

“I’m learning how to mother both myself and my child.” “I’m allowed to feel overwhelmed and still be a good parent.”

“I can have needs and still be strong.”

“I don’t have to earn rest.”

“I’m human, and that’s enough.”

“I am still becoming, and that’s okay.”

Every time I chose a new thought, I was writing a new page.

Becoming the Author

You may not have chosen the first half of your story. But you get to write the next chapter.

And you don’t have to write it alone.

You can write it tired. You can write it angry. You can write it with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks.

But please, don’t let an old story make you forget who you are becoming.

When We Don't Rewrite

The truth is, not rewriting the story has its own cost.

When we keep living by an old script, one written in someone else’s voice, we stay small.

We move through life on autopilot. We hold ourselves back.

We say no to things we secretly want. We overextend. We hide our needs. We forget who we are.

And over time, that kind of living starts to hurt. Not loudly, not all at once, but in a quiet, hollow way. A dull ache where joy could have lived.

It’s not just about believing something new.

It’s about reclaiming your voice. Your path. Your possibility.

This is Still a Work in Progress

I haven’t arrived. There’s no arrival.

Some days, I fall back into the old story. Some days, the voices in my head get loud. Some days, I forget everything I’ve learned.

But I remember this:

I am not the story.

I am the one holding the pen.

And so are you.

A Note for the Brave Ones

If you're reading this and you're trying, really trying, to change the way you speak to yourself, to shift the story you've lived by for years… I want you to know something: That takes courage.

It takes courage to pause.

To listen.

To question.

To let go of what's familiar, even when it no longer fits.

To write a new chapter, especially when you don’t know how it ends.

If that’s you, I see you.

And I’m walking that path too.

One word, one breath, one brave rewrite at a time.

Mirka