The Stories We Tell Ourselves About Ourselves

On rewriting our inner narrative through self-compassion, healing, and unexpected strength

Foreword

You need this essay today, and I want you to know something before you even begin: you are not alone. You are loved. You are needed. And you are allowed to rewrite the story you’ve been told—or the one you’ve been telling yourself.

So many of us walk around carrying stories that were never ours to begin with—stories rooted in shame, in survival, in someone else’s fears. Stories that say we’re not enough, or that we’re too much. Stories that mistake wounds for worth.

Katie’s words in this piece are a lifeline. They remind us that self-compassion isn’t indulgence—it’s survival. It’s strength. I’ve told her more than once to take care of my best friend. What I mean every time is: please keep being gentle with yourself. Because that gentleness is not just saving her. It’s teaching the rest of us how to be more whole.

So if you're here, and if something inside you aches with recognition, I hope this piece offers what it offered me: a way back to your own kindness. A new story. One that tells the truth.

-Brian Piñon

I love words and stories. I love the line in T.J Kingfisher’s Thornhedge, in which one character offhandedly proclaims “you can't kill a story.” Because it's true. People will fight for a story. People will live for a story. People will die for a story. It's a powerful ally and a powerful enemy. It can fade over time but if it continues to be retold its power remains and grows. 

So much of what we do in our heads all day is tell ourselves stories. Trying to make sense of the world, we tell ourselves stories – about other people and about ourselves. 

That is why self-compassion is the most powerful tool I have ever encountered. Self-compassion is the story we tell ourselves about ourselves – the merciful version. 

Not everyone who struggles with depression and anxiety struggles exactly the same. For me, one of the aspects I have long dealt with is an internal soundtrack that tells me over and over again that I am “a terrible person.” It has taken me years of therapy and mindfulness practices like meditation to even be able to notice that record playing on repeat. For so long, I just believed it to be the truth instead of an untrue story I had fed myself about myself. 

When I first met my longtime therapist, Cindy Chicoine, I did not want the medicine she was offering. I knew something was wrong. I was aware by now that I lived in more stress and internal emotional pain than it was necessary to experience in such a prolonged and profound way. I wanted to get help. I just wasn't prepared for the help she offered. 

What I recall was that she wanted me to imagine the part of myself that said all of those unkind things inside my own head was sitting in a chair across from me and tell that part thank you for trying to protect us but it's going to be okay, we are loved and lovable, and you- that part of me -can rest now. I was wholly uncomfortable with this idea and didn't go back to her for months after that. I was used to thinking that the way to succeed and be a good person was to push myself as hard as possible - demand more, demand the best from myself. Acknowledging and thanking the flawed and flailing parts of me seemed abjectly wrong. It also made me feel soft and vulnerable in a way I wasn't ready for but have since found is how healing and real strength really happens.  

I tried other practitioners, but for one reason or another, I found myself back in Cindy's office, willing to try again. At first, I felt stupid talking to myself. But as I started talking, I started crying, shedding tears that had been holed inside of me for a long time - tears for a decade or more of believing and listening to that damaging story about myself.  

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I didn't know it then, but I was engaging in something called Internal Family Systems Therapy, which Disney-Pixar made compelling and accessible to a wide age range of audiences in their movie Inside Out and its sequel. At its heart, the idea is to be kind to all the parts of ourselves. Even the parts of ourselves that we wouldn't want making important long-term decisions - like fear and anger - bring us important information. Neither giving them free reign nor pushing them down was good for me. For me, it was when I learned to listen to and love these parts of myself that I started to find a pathway toward experiencing my anxiety and depression as manageable. 

I read recently that it's actually this ability to experience self-compassion that makes us good at relationships. That makes a lot of sense to me because when I was in the thrall of that unkind soundtrack in my head, I was terrified to make a mistake. Every request, need, or critique from someone else was a cause for alarm. Because I was trying so hard to defend myself against the possibility that the unkind story I told myself was true. Every problem in my life was one more piece of evidence that I was “a terrible person.”

Lots of days, I still feel this way. Lots of days, that track still plays too loudly in my head. But more often than not, in the last few years, whenever that unkind story starts to play, I meet it with a different story. I meet it with a story of self-compassion. Of course, I will make mistakes. Of course, there will be times when other people are unhappy with me. Of course, I will even disappoint myself. But none of these things make me a terrible person. The part of me that made that story just wants to help. It wants me to be the best I can be. I see this now. And I love that part of me. But I don't want it to make my decisions. So, on my good days, I say thank you. It will be okay. We are loved. And you can rest now. Sometimes I have to say it a lot. Sometimes, I still feel silly. Like, how can something so soft really be so strong?

But I would rather use this powerful mental health first aid than continue to believe an unkind, untrue story. I would rather use this powerful first aid than take out my own hurt on someone else. I would rather pass along this hard-won knowledge to my children so that they will be as kind to themselves as they can be too. 

And when I look outward at the world, I see what happens when that kindness is absent. Because I believe that's what we're seeing when we witness a president who mocks his opponents. I believe that's what we're seeing when violence is enacted in our cities, neighborhoods, and families. We're seeing an inability of people to first be kind to themselves, let alone the rest of us. It may sound soft, but it is the strength that saves us.

Honestly, I think what brought me back to Cindy’s office was her own kindness toward me. 

I remember that without childcare, I had brought my infant son to the appointment, and she was more than understanding. Even when I needed to change him, I felt comfortable doing it there in the office while we talked. She was so compassionate, encouraging, and understanding. I still find today that when I am at my lowest, borrowing other people’s kindness often acts as a bridge back to showing kindness to myself. 

Self-compassion is the story that has kept me alive. It is the story that has made me an emotionally intelligent parent. It is the story that has made me a healthy leader. The story that I am simply a human capable of both monumental mistakes and tremendous triumphs and entirely lovable all the same has changed my life. 

That story—the one grounded in self-compassion—is the one I choose to believe. And it’s the one I hope you’ll tell yourself, too.