How the Stories We Tell Shape Who We Become →

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“How you arrange the plot points of your life into a narrative shapes who you are and is a fundamental part of being human.”
— Life’s Stories, The Atlantic (2015)

That quote opens an insightful article by The Atlantic, which explores the powerful role storytelling plays in identity. In the piece, Monisha Pasupathi, a professor of developmental psychology at the University of Utah, adds a simple but profound truth:

“To have relationships, we’ve all had to tell little pieces of our story.”

We do this every day. In casual conversation—whether we realize it or not—we offer tiny glimpses into our narrative. When someone asks, “Where are you from?” or “Which school did you attend?” they’re really asking: Tell me a piece of your story.

Recently, I watched a small moment unfold in a mall. A salesperson stood at the entrance of a store, smiling and making eye contact with passersby. One woman smiled back. They entered the store together, and I overheard their exchange. The salesperson asked where the woman was from. She answered, naming a town in California. As it turned out, the salesperson knew the town well. They recalled a shared street and began reminiscing. Both women relaxed. A connection had been made—one built simply by exchanging pieces of their life stories.

We all connect the events of our lives into a kind of internal narrative. The way we link those events—what we choose to emphasize, what we leave out—forms our sense of identity. In a very real way, we are the stories we tell about ourselves.

Over the past two decades, I’ve had the opportunity to tell my own story at least twenty times to a group of men at my local church. Each time I shared it, the story changed slightly. Sometimes I added new insights. Sometimes I left out older details. Sometimes I remembered the same event differently. With time, memory and meaning shift.

I’ve also heard dozens of other men tell their life stories—some more than once, years apart. Their stories evolved, just as mine did. The emphasis changed. The tone softened. New perspectives emerged. It wasn’t the facts that changed—it was the framing. The meaning.

Life stories are like books. They have plots, themes, timelines, and characters. But unlike novels, we’re both the authors and the main characters. We decide which chapters matter. We choose what to emphasize and how to connect it. Our identities are not fixed—they’re revised, updated, and rewritten over time.

The influences on our life stories go beyond events. Art, music, poetry, relationships, heritage, service, even food—these all shape our narrative. And just as characters in books can fade in and out of focus, so can the people in our lives. Some who once felt central eventually play only a small role. Others remain part of our core storyline forever.

An anonymous poem that opens one of my books says it well:

“Some people come into our lives for a reason, some for a season, and some for a lifetime.”

Some say those people are sent by God. Others believe they appear by coincidence or challenge. Either way, we are the ones who assign meaning. We get to decide what we carry forward. We choose how we make sense of what’s happened—and in doing so, who we become.

To deny that power is to accept a deterministic view of identity: that we are nothing more than the product of our genetics, our upbringing, and our environment. That’s because we didn’t choose our parents, birthplace, or early experiences, we’re locked into a path.

But that view doesn’t hold up.

If you don’t believe people change, try this simple test:
Tell your life story today. Write it down. Then revisit it a year from now.
You’ll tell it differently.

And in that difference is proof that identity is not a fixed script.
It’s a living, evolving narrative—authored by you.

Our Life Story Creates our Identity →

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Whenever I think about my life story, I rethink what happened and draw new conclusions. The following story didn’t happen in a boxing ring. I wish it had because I might have done better, but the story has stuck with me throughout my life.

When I was about eleven years old, I had the unfortunate experience of being chased home each day after school by a kid called Allen, who was much bigger than me. One day my mother met me as I was running into the yard. She had probably noticed I was out of breath on my return each day. That day she asked why I was running so hard, and I told her Allen was chasing me. I could have said, “I was running to avoid getting pounded.” That would have been an honest answer.

We lived by a river, and crossing the bridge in front of our house meant I was home. The next day my mother was out front, waiting for my arrival as I crossed the bridge. She stopped me there, and when shortly Allen came thundering across, she called him over and announced to us both that the following day we would meet right there in the park across the street from my house and fight. The announcement surprised me. What surprised me even more, was my mother setting this fight up. Looking back, it also amazes me that I didn’t try to get out of it or worry about it. I just figured that was what I had to do. I had to fight him.

The next day at school, word got out. Some asked me the kids if I was going to fight him. I said yes, I was. After school, Allen arrived at the park with a crowd of kids from school, some even before I arrived. My mother was there, waiting. She had all the kids that had shown up from a big circle. Allen and I entered the ring with fists, ready to start swinging, and Mom was the referee. I still remember looking at Allen, who was much taller and heavier than I was, and not feeling afraid.

The fight began, and I danced around with my fists, trying to land some punches and trying harder to avoid getting punched. I hit him as hard as I could a few times. I had boxed with my dad in the evenings and understood a little about the process, but Allen didn’t look like he even felt my punches. He wasn’t very good at boxing and preferred to push and shove, several times jostljoltingo the ground before jumping on and pounding me. Even lying flat on my back, I would hit whatever part of his body I could connect with. Each time we landed on the ground, my mother had us get back up and continue boxing. It wasn’t a fight; I stood a chance of winning. Finally, my mother held Allen’s hand and said, “There you go, Allen, you won!”

What has always surprised me most then, and ever since, is that I wasn’t scared. I felt like I did my best and didn’t hurt too badly. I lost my fear of failing. Life went on. I did get into a fight or two in later years at school and did much better.

When I tell this part of my life story, it seems to be a meaningful connection and even explains many of the future challenges and changes I have had in my life. I have not been afraid of failures but have worked through them over the years. I learned that when you get knocked down, you get back up, you keep fighting, and when it is over, life goes on.

By the way, a side note. I have always loved boxing. Watching it, in particular. Muhammad Ali is my favorite boxer, and this quote of his has specific relevance for me:

“Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even.”