I tell myself stories all day long. Stories to soothe. Stories to motivate. Stories to console. Stories to provoke fear and anxiety. Stories of success. Stories of failure. And, as hard as it is for me to believe at times, I can rewrite any of those stories at any time.
Here’s one. It is a story that’s ostensibly about mountain biking. And, as with all our stories, it is a story I’m telling myself about myself. Where I used to mountain bike in the California Sierras, most of the trails l rode were longtime friends. I knew exactly where the tricky spots were. I assessed my ride by how many times I touched a foot on the ground, how long I stayed on the bike during a treacherous or super steep stretch and how many times I got off the bike. I told myself stories about my focus and strength and resilience, which were not always supportive.
This summer I was in new terrain, as I am with so much of my life in this moment. The mountain bike trails were unfamiliar and challenging in different ways, a lot more slippery giant tree roots, for example. I was off my bike significantly more often than I used to be on my longtime trails. At first, the story I was telling myself went like this: You’ve lost your mojo and finesse, maybe your fitness, too. You are too old to mountain bike. That I had a sprained ankle didn’t help, though my ankle was surprisingly cooperative when I was riding and even when I was hopping off to walk the bike for steep uphill stretches, a water feature or a tree root festival.
Then one day, as I was walking my bike through difficult terrain, berating myself for my weakness, lack of talent and age, I suddenly thought. No. This is not the story! I decided on the spot to rewrite the narrative. To tell myself a new story. Wow, Mina. Impressive transitions getting on and off the bike with such speed and grace. Never mind all the effort of the hopping off and on, even carrying the bike over some obstacles. I didn’t even stop there with my new version. All this on and off requires more strength and agility than just riding. Great functional fitness benefits, especially as you age. Rockstar.
The story of my shortcomings morphed into a story of grace and resilience, of healthy aging. Was I lying to myself with the new story? No. The stories are nothing but interpretations of these neutral facts: I was hopping on and off my bike on a mountain trail. The story I tell myself to make meaning of that experience is up to me, as it is with every story I tell myself about what’s happening in my life.
My life could benefit from any number of rewrites these days. Without becoming delusional, I want to tell the stories that support me into the future, rather than the stories that mire me in sadness and fear. I’m not talking about stories that negate what is. I mean stories that help me make sense of what’s happened, without stopping me cold in my tracks.
Here’s an example.
Version 1 of The Story of My Addison’s Disease: You failed to manage your stress. If you had been better able to manage the fear, sadness and distress of your relationship breakdown (or if you’d not failed at your relationship in the first place), and, also, if you had better managed the grief after the loss of your mother, your cat and your home, plus a suddenly financially precarious situation, then you wouldn’t have this disease. You brought this on yourself. You have only yourself to blame.
Can you hear the brakes squealing in my life, as I run aground in the quagmire of depression and hopelessness this version of the story engenders?
Or there’s Version 2 of The Story of My Addison’s Disease: Shit happens. And, in your case, a lot of shit happened all at once. Also, way back in 2016 your potassium was already elevated and your egfr was low, but after seeing a kidney doc, the conclusion was that you were in excellent health. When those pre-existing fragilities, along with some viral load that is also common in Addison’s Disease, then combined with the perfect storm of stressors (which any normal person would have found difficult to live through), they triggered the onset of the Addison’s. And how amazingly lucky are you that it wasn’t worse? That you are alive. That, even as much as you’d like to heal and get off your medication (a work in progress), the medication works beautifully, and you have the energy to be your same old exuberant and enthusiastic self. Hallelujah.
Version 2 is a story to dance to. I need dancing way more than I need brakes. I need to celebrate getting off my mountain bike to walk through tough obstacles, not criticize myself. Also, mountain biking has always felt like dancing on a bike, so I want to open space for the full pleasure of that experience. Side note: I’m loving that the women mountain bikers at the Olympics were so huggy at the end of their race. That’s what dancing on a bike can do for you.
My goal: More dancing (and more hugs) and less blaming in the stories I tell myself about myself.
