The Story We Tell Ourselves

My face in one corner of the screen, his in the other, I prepared myself for a hard conversation with a friend and fellow executive. Talks like this used to demand an “in-person” meeting. But now, in a post-pandemic world, conversing over a brightly lit screen is the norm. The physical distance between us seemed like a metaphor for the relational distance and the very reason for this call. 

Months after being stuck in an undesired and unresolved negotiation. With tensions high and reasons unclear, I scheduled a call to figure out how in the world friends could get here, to a place where we’re unable to communicate.

“What’s your 30,000-foot view of what’s going on?” I asked. And just like that, he launched into a full-blown story. A constructed emotional narrative that left barely any room for objective assessment. And it made all the sense in the world, that his story would match his actions. 

Oh, the power of the stories we tell ourselves.

I’ve witnessed a story take down a partnership before. Just three years earlier my co-founder and I had a similar experience. Ask most people in business about a hard time, and they will have a story all their own to tell. 

But is the story true?

In the absence of information, we make up things. We fill the gaps, trying to make sense of something we don’t understand. It's how our brains are wired to survive. But here’s the catch: we’re chemically rewarded for having completed a story in our minds, even if it’s not accurate.

This is exactly why the stories we tell ourselves matter. Stories are so strong, they form who we are and drive our actions. At their best, they connect us; they unite nations. At their worst, they divide us; they cause wars. When the stories go unchecked, they expand until we’re miles apart or at each other’s throats. 

So why are we so confident that the story in our head is true? Because it feels far too risky, too vulnerable to find out it’s not.

Throughout a decade of working in fast-paced environments, I’ve seen this play out in both small and grand ways. For example:

• We tell ourselves: an employee doesn’t care about the company because she came in a little late on a Monday.

• The truth is: she cares so much about the company that she worked all weekend. When she accidentally woke up late on a Monday, she rushed in as soon as she could.

When I’m missing the other person’s side of the story, the story I’m telling myself can’t be 100% true. Simply asking myself, “Are you sure?” helps me see just how far I’ve taken the Spielberg-level movie-making in my mind. I tend to have it all plotted out: the script, lead characters, the scene, and the villain. Obviously, I’m the hero.

When I find myself in a situation like that Zoom call, I have yet to find a better way to start a conversation than Brene Brown’s tried and true tactic. If the room is filled with tension start with, “The story I am telling myself is…” 

It’s an incredibly powerful way to let my guard down and clear up any misunderstandings or errors with the story in my own head. It shifts the entire dynamic from shame and blame (“You did this to me.”) to curiosity and connection (“Is this what’s happening?”). It clears up the air.

I’m not going to lie, hard conversations are terrifying. I’d rather do almost anything else—hide, make up stories, and stay mad. It’s easier. 

But it’s important not only to show up as our authentic selves but also to grow our emotional intelligence to foster healthier relationships. Identifying and communicating my own worked-up emotions is the path to healing. 

To quote Tim Ferris, “A person's success in life can be measured by the number of uncomfortable conversations he or she is willing to have.”

I’ve come to see that when I am avoiding a hard conversation, I’m consciously choosing cowardice over courage. Short-term comfort over long-term progress. 

My advice to human-ing while doing business? Don’t take the easy way out. Sleep better at night knowing the stories you tell aren’t half-truths, but the whole.