There's a story you tell about yourself.
You know it by heart.
Someone asks how you're doing.
You tell the story you always tell.
Even the pauses are the same.
Even the parts where you almost cry.
You've told it to strangers.
You've told it to yourself.
Nothing about the story has ever changed.
A thought comes and goes.
A story stays.
It's the floor under every thought you've ever had.
It doesn't feel like a story. It feels like the truth.
That's what a story does when it's been running long enough. It stops sounding like a story. It starts sounding like you.
And somewhere along the way, you stopped asking who was telling it. You just started reciting it in the dark.
"…it starts sounding like you."
The story didn't come from nowhere.
Somebody else wrote the first lines.
Somebody else wrote the first lines.
A parent. A moment.
And ever since, the story has been deciding what you're allowed to want. How big you're allowed to dream. How much life you're allowed to reach for.
It's not telling you who you are. It's keeping you small enough to fit inside.
The story keeps you in loops. Same fears. Same ceilings. Same reasons you can't.
And the dreams you were meant for? They don't feel like yours. They feel like someone else's life.
You've been living inside a story somebody else started. And calling it who you are.
You can't edit a story you don't know you're telling.
You've been reading the script like it belonged to someone else.
You forgot you were the one holding the pen.
You thought the story was who you are.
But a new story awaits.
One only you can write.