When editing Through the Lens of Serendipity, I was asked a question that I could not answer right away. There is a part in the book where I share about a time I sought out professional mental help. One of my sweet editors asked if I wanted to elaborate on why I sought help and I was torn. I did want to tell the story because I pride myself in being transparent and because stories make lessons more impactful. But, the story did not belong to me alone and, if I told it, people I love would be hurt. So, I couldn’t share this one.
I love telling stories, especially through the magic of writing. I write in hopes that readers reflect on their own experiences and develop new understanding. It is important to share the good, the bad, and the ugly because life is all of those things. I want people to feel a sense of community when they read my blogs or books, knowing that we all experience the ups and downs of life. I want people to know that we all face inner demons that often threaten our happiness more than any outside demon could. But, I can’t tell all of my stories.
I can’t tell you how I learned some of my toughest lessons. How I faced challenges that caused me to closely examine the person I was and the person I wanted to become. How, at a young age, I decided that I get to be me regardless of outside circumstances. That I learned the hard way that the only person who gets to determine way I am going to live my life is me. There will be challenges, there will be difficulties, and there will be times when I question myself to the core. But, always, in the end, I am in control of me.
There will always be untold stories. There are stories that we haven’t worked through yet, and we can’t tell them until we feel firmly in control of the situation. Sometimes we fear that things might get worse if we tell a particular story. There are stories that don’t belong to just us and others will be hurt if we tell them. Some of our stories may be perceived as bragging, so we don’t share them. There are stories that we want to keep for ourselves because they are sacred and fragile. Our stories, told or untold, are not skeletons in our closet, they are the beautiful threads that weave the fabric of our life.
We don’t know others’ untold stories, we just know that everyone has them. We all do. And, that is okay.
