We all carry stories.
Some are full of laughter and lavender skies, and others are written in smudged ink with chapters I’d rather not reread. But whether they’re grand epics or quiet footnotes, these stories—the ones we’ve lived and the ones I tell myself—shape the way I move through the world.
And sometimes, I need to edit them.
I’ve been thinking lately about how certain events in my life—loss, love, disappointment, joy—settle into my bones like characters in a novel. They became part of the plot I leaned on to make sense of things. A breakup becomes a story of unworthiness. A career pivot becomes a failure instead of an adventure. That one decision ten years ago became the thing I blame for every closed door since.
I replay these narratives over and over, sometimes without realizing it. Sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep, a narrative runs on a constant loop, keeping me awake and anxious. But what if the version I’m holding on to isn’t the truth? Or, at least, not the only truth?
As a writer, I’m constantly rewriting. I adjust the dialogue, shift the setting, and add layers to a character until their motives become clear. And recently, I realized that life works in a similar way. We are the authors of our own stories—even the ones that hurt. Especially the ones that hurt.
Maybe that friendship didn’t end because I’m too much—but because I was finally becoming my whole self, and it made someone else uncomfortable. Perhaps the missed promotion wasn’t about my lack of talent but a redirection toward something more fulfilling. Maybe I wasn’t being dramatic, or difficult, or “too sensitive.” Maybe I was just being honest.
Sometimes, I have to go back and pick up the pen. Not to erase what’s happened but to reframe it in a way that serves me. To ask: What’s the lesson here? What did I survive? Who did I become because of this?
When I sit down to write a new novel, I often draw on my own experiences—sometimes directly, sometimes as subtle hints woven into the background. A character might carry my heartbreak. Another might carry my hope. But what they all have in common is this: they grow. They mess up. They heal. They rewrite the stories that don’t suit them.
And so can you.
So today, if there’s a story you’ve been telling yourself that no longer fits—rewrite it. Give it a new ending. Or maybe just a new beginning. You don’t owe anyone the same version of yourself you were yesterday. You don’t even owe that to yourself.
This life isn’t a closed book. It’s a living, breathing draft.
You get to revise.
Have you ever had to rewrite a personal story to move forward? Share in the comments—I’d love to know what chapter you’re on. And if you’re not sure where to begin, try this:
What story am I carrying, and how would it feel to tell it differently?
Until next time,
Jacki
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