The Invisible Narratives That Run Our Lives If We Let Them

There I was on your typical beach vacation, relaxing and reading an excellent book. The book, Epictetus’ The Art of Living, was the late 1st and early 2nd century Stoic philosopher’s manual for a virtuous life, a series of short summaries on various ways he advised we should aspire to live. In it, a passage was about to land that I would find particularly thought provoking:

“First and foremost, think before you speak to make sure you are speaking with good purpose. Glib talk disrespects others. Breezy self-disclosure disrespects yourself. So many people feel compelled to give voice to any passing feeling, thought, or impressions they have.”

This idea stuck with me throughout a week of relaxation. What breezy self-disclosures was I guilty of? How often had I been glib or off-purpose with my communication, at home or at work? But as I sat with the idea a little longer, I realized something deeper.  For most of us, it isn’t just what we’re saying out loud; it’s the narratives we develop internally and come to believe about ourselves that can be the most self-limiting. Epictetus was warning against careless speech, but the more I reflected, the more I realized that our most consequential “speech” is often internal.

“I’m not wired that way.”

“I’ve never been good at that.”

“I’ve always been intense.”

“I’ve always been an emotional person.”

These aren’t just passing thoughts. They are narratives, often developed over time or derived from a single experience in which things didn’t go the way we’d hoped. Why should one moment be allowed to shape an enduring belief about who we are or what lies ahead?

For me personally, I spent decades of my adult life affirming my own intensity ― personally and professionally ― as if it was a result of some kind of immutable genetic wiring, rather than my own life experiences and my subsequent reactions to them.   The idea that this couldn’t be changed or that I should be proud of remaining in such a state was never going to serve me well. Learning to shift from that belief meant rewriting the narrative: “I can be intense at times, but I know that’s not always the best approach, as a professional or a parent or a spouse.”  

As we begin to tune into our narratives, we can learn a lot about ourselves and the invisible limitations or expectations we may be placing squarely on our own shoulders. Sometimes seeing these narratives in others helps us appreciate the power they often hold. If you’ve ever watched competitive reality television — whether it’s survival challenges, physical competitions, or high-pressure performance settings — you’ve likely seen this play out in real time. Under stress, people tend to reveal the narratives they are carrying into the moment of truth.

An underwater challenge leads a contestant to declare, “I can’t hold my breath.” A physical challenge reminds a participant of a past failure they recount in an interview, and as the contest approaches, they blurt, “This is where I fall apart.” On the other side, we see those who maintain a positive outlook, “I’ve got this,” or “you’ve got this” or “I’m built for this.”

What’s fascinating is not just the outcome, but the language and the interaction between teammates or competitors across this spectrum of narratives. What is the story each person tells about themselves in the moment? What is the story you tell? Stress has a way of stripping away our filters, bringing our narratives to the surface like an erupting volcano.

And while most of us aren’t being filmed, our own high-pressure moments — conflict, uncertainty, discomfort — often work in much the same way, allowing us an opportunity to observe, examine, and reframe such narratives.  The question, of course, is whether we notice them and the quiet role they play.

Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck’s Growth Mindset is well-known in childhood development and psychology circles, as her research showed the constraints of a fixed mindset (belief that abilities are fixed traits, not to be improved) in contrast to a growth mindset (belief that abilities can be developed). But one thing many miss about her work is that we can demonstrate a growth mindset in one area of our life only to operate with a fixed mindset in another.  In fact, this is far more probable than simply operating from one mindset because our experiences are so different across areas of our lives.

A difficult setback, discouragement, or even embarrassment in one area of our life can set a limiting belief in that area, while simultaneously we feel encouraged or successful in another part of our lives.  In the negative experience, we may vastly underplay its singular nature in our calculus moving forward, allowing it undue influence to lurk over our future choices, confidence, and certainty of outcomes. A bad experience has an immediate initial impact, and it’s one that we tend to experience in very conscious ways. It lands like a meteor in our life, and we deal with the subsequent fallout. But over time, the crater it leaves behind often becomes something else entirely: a label or a quiet conclusion about who we are and what we are capable of. And well after it is no longer visible in our conscious rearview mirror, it can continue to operate at a subconscious level, affecting our future desire to participate, our attitudes, or even our levels of anxiety.

But in truth, we are often far more dynamic and capable than the narratives we may assign ourselves. The opportunity, then, is not simply to identify these narratives, but to become an observer of them: to slow down long enough to catch the story you’re telling yourself as it begins to form, and then ask whether it is true, fair, or useful. Is this really who I am or aspire to be? Or is this a conclusion I drew from a singular, painful moment, a setback, or an embarrassing experience that I never properly revisited?

That kind of reflection matters because our narratives often borrow far more power than they deserve. They may contain a kernel of truth, but kernels can grow into something much larger when left unchecked. A difficult experience can grow into a full-blown fixed identity. A fleeting moment of weakness can become a permanent internal label. A moment of fear can become a lifelong forecast of future performance.

This is where personal growth comes in. We have to open our toolbox and examine the evidence. Is the story we keep telling ourselves supported by the full body of work ― our collective experience ― or is it too selective in its belief structure? Have there also been moments of resilience, strength, competence, or growth that our narrative conveniently omits? Most of us are far better historians of our failures than we are of our triumphs.

And if we are willing to reexamine the evidence honestly, we earn the right to reframe our story with a growth mindset in mind. Perhaps the narrative is not, “I’ve always been this way,” but rather, “This has been my pattern at times, and it is one I can work to change.” Perhaps it is not, “I always fall apart under pressure,” but, “Pressure reveals where I need more practice, awareness, and preparation ― and most importantly, where I can grow.”

Epictetus urged us to speak with “good purpose” and that is challenging in a day and age when our minds often wander quickly, think negatively, and demonstrate both an impulsiveness and a proclivity to expose our self-limiting self-concepts to others. As a result, the challenge is to apply the same awareness to our internal conversations as we do our external ones. If not, we may end up living inside the very stories that no longer serve us. But if we can learn to observe those stories ― spotting and testing them as they arrive ― we develop the ability to revise them with our own growth and intentions in mind, reclaiming our true potential.