Each of us has a storyteller inside our brain, telling us about the people in our life, the events that have and are unfolding, and even about ourselves. Most of the time, we don’t even notice it’s there — it’s just the background track running in our minds, with us assuming it’s accurately reporting to us all the details of our experience. But that storyteller is at the heart of the first in a set of what I believe to be the five fundamental principles of mental health:
The quality of your life is predicated on the quality of your narrative.
If the story you are telling yourself is full of defeat, blame, or “I’ll never get it right,” it’s no surprise when you feel stuck. If your story is one of learning, adapting, growing, and overcoming, you move differently through the world. The story doesn’t just describe your life — it directs it.
Stories Shape Identity
Think of your narrative as a camera filter. Some filters are designed to block out harsh light, others accentuate certain colors, and still others mute tones to create a darker mood. The scene itself doesn’t change, but the way it’s captured does. Similarly, two people can face the exact same setback: one filter emphasizes the shadows, turning the moment into proof of failure; another filter brings out the highlights, framing the same experience as fuel for growth. The facts are identical, but the stories are worlds apart.
Research supports this idea. Psychologists studying “narrative identity” have found that the way people make sense of their experiences is one of the strongest predictors of mental health. In fact, people who frame their past as a story of growth and resilience tend to report higher levels of life satisfaction and lower levels of depression. Your story influences how you interpret challenges, how you relate to others, and what you believe about your future. Over time, it becomes your identity.
But like I said before, much of the time, our story is being told without us even realizing it. Our narrator runs on autopilot, stitching together interpretations and conclusions that feel true simply because they’ve been repeated over and over again. That can be dangerous: a story left unchecked can quietly steer us into all kinds of directions that we don’t want to go, without our consent. And yet, just as a setback can be reframed as either failure or growth, the narrator itself isn’t unchangeable; it only feels that way when we stop questioning it. In reality, the voice that tells our story is one of the few things over which we can exert tremendous control — if we choose to bring it into awareness and become the author of the narrative, not just the listener.
Editing the Story
And that’s the most encouraging part of this principle: stories aren’t fixed. They can be reexamined, revised and rewritten. Therapy, journaling, or even simple reflection are all ways of noticing the narrator and guiding the story it tells.
This doesn’t mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means refusing to let the hardest chapter set the tone for the whole narrative. My goal — both with clients and in my own life — is to separate the suffering that’s inherent to being human from the suffering we create for ourselves through distorted or self-defeating stories. Doing that requires conscious, intentional work.
One practical way to begin is by paying attention to the language you use with yourself. Try shifting:
· “I have to go to work.” → “I choose to go to work.”
· “I have to take care of my kids.” → “I get to take care of my kids.”
If you’ve been following the newsletter, you may recognize this challenge from the welcome series. It’s a small cognitive hack, but it carries weight: reframing obligation into agency, and agency into gratitude. Give it a try — and notice how even the slightest shift in narration changes the way you feel. Sometimes the smallest edits ripple the farthest.
Be well.