Blog by Sholom-
This won’t be the most eloquent thing I share here but I think it’s still very much worth sharing.
Old stories— we all have them. The ones that play like background noise in our minds, especially when we’re tired, stretched thin, or trying to step into something bigger.
Old stories— we all have them. The ones that play like background noise in our minds, especially when we’re tired, stretched thin, or trying to step into something bigger.
“You’re not good enough.”
“You always mess things up.”
“They’re going to see right through you.”
“You’re too much / too little/ too late.”
“You always mess things up.”
“They’re going to see right through you.”
“You’re too much / too little/ too late.”
They can sound like facts. They can even feel like facts. They’ll often wear the disguise of logic or humility. But the truth is: they’re lies. Even if they’re true sometimes, when they’re labels, they’re still lies. They’re conditioned patterns. Echoes of one’s pain. Things you absorbed before you knew how to protect yourself or to question them.
The first step in disarming a story is recognizing we’re in one. Literally in one. We can recognize this pattern when the inner voice is suddenly harsh, absolute, or laced with malice and shame. When there’s a sense of tightness. When we’re reacting more than responding.
We obsess over non-objective truths. But they’re not truths. They’re scripts, and the longer we leave them unchecked, the more power they have over us and our lives.
A Practice
Here’s a practice that has changed everything for me:
When I catch myself mid-story, I physically stop. I imagine the lie as something I can hold in my hand. I take the thought/ the accusation/ the shame and I place it into the palm of my hand.
I hold it out in front of me. I look at it.
And I say, with full conviction: “NO.” (Occasionally my choice of language is a bit more colorful).
And I say, with full conviction: “NO.” (Occasionally my choice of language is a bit more colorful).
Not to myself.
To the lie.
To the lie.
To the pattern that has continued to keep me small.
To the voice that’s not actually mine.
To the belief that does not belong in the life I’m creating.
To the voice that’s not actually mine.
To the belief that does not belong in the life I’m creating.
There’s something potent about giving it shape and then rejecting
it out loud. It snaps me back into reality. Into agency. It reminds me: I am not my thoughts.
Why This Works
When I don’t interrupt a story, I’ll live from it, and when I live from a lie, I create more evidence that prove my patterns true. It’s a vicious cycle. By naming it, externalizing it, and rejecting it, I break the loop. We can step out of the story by actively naming and rejecting it. But we’ve got to recognize it first.
This practice doesn’t mean the story won’t return. It took years to build and it won’t disappear quickly. But it won’t run the show anymore.
You are not the voice that tears you down.
You are not the fear, or the shame, or the insecurity.
You can be the observer. The one who gets to choose what gets to stay.
You are not the fear, or the shame, or the insecurity.
You can be the observer. The one who gets to choose what gets to stay.
So, the next time that old voice pipes up, don’t fight with it. Don’t try to prove or justify yourself. Just take the story, put it in your hand, look it in the “eye,” and say:
“NO!”
(or your own version)
(or your own version)
Then move on. You’ve got better stories to write.