The human brain is a storyteller with no off switch. It narrates while you brush your teeth, negotiates while you shop for lemons, and provides running commentary during yoga class. Especially during the quiet parts when you are upside down and thinking deeply important thoughts like: Is my leg supposed to be here? I do not think my leg should be here.
We do not learn storytelling. We exhale it.
Long before we built cities, invented Wi Fi, or discovered that cheese belongs on almost everything, stories were how we survived. Someone gathered the clan and said, “So, here is the tale of Uncle Bartholomew and why he should not have poked that bear.” That was not entertainment. That was a life saving memo.
Fast forward several millennia and we are still doing it. Today the bears are mostly metaphoric. Now the story is something like: I must work twice as hard. Or: My creativity arrives only in rare lightning strikes. Or: Rest is something I earn only after everyone else is taken care of. Different bears. Same fear.
Here is the plot twist. Most of the stories shaping our lives are not ones we chose. We inherited them like old family furniture. More sentimental than practical. Slightly uncomfortable. Carrying the scent of someone else’s perfume.
You did not audition for the role of The Responsible One or The Good Girl or The One Who Holds It All Together. You simply found yourself in the costume, improvising lines and hoping nobody notices you have no idea what the script even is.
The truly wild part is that we forget the storyteller in our minds is not always reliable.
The narrator inside your head has a flair for drama, zero chill, and terrible historical accuracy. It will turn a sideways glance into a Greek tragedy. It will transform a late reply into a cliffhanger of rejection and doom. Meanwhile the other person was simply making tea.
If we can laugh at this then the real magic begins.
Humor opens the portal. Humor says, “If I can see the pattern, I can play with it.” Once you can play, you can rewrite.
This is where the power of story becomes less poetic and more practical. It is where it touches healing.
Every time you say, “I was always the type of person who…” or “That kind of life is not for someone like me,” or “I am not creative or spiritual or brave or magical,” you are reading from a script written by someone who is not currently in your body, living your life, or paying your bills.
The page is not set in stone. It is paper. Paper bends. It folds. It burns. Most beautifully, it can be rewritten.
What if you are not the character, but the author? What if the plot is not predetermined, but in progress? What if the story is not ending, but beginning?
The moment you become conscious of the narrative, you are no longer inside the story. You are holding the pen.
There is something else. Rewriting your story becomes far more powerful when done in community.
A story shared becomes real. A story witnessed becomes medicine. A story heard becomes permission.
If your inner narrator could use a co-writer, or at least an editor with a sense of humor and a cup of tea, you are invited to join us at the Women Lighting the Way Summit.
Let us gather, rewrite, laugh, release, plot twist, edit, and create the next chapter together, consciously.
We are all storytelling creatures whether we like it or not.
So we might as well make it a good one.
I believe that is all for today.
I would be so happy to hear from you.
If this spoke to your heart, I’d love for you to share it with a sister, a friend, a fellow Goddess on the path.
I send, as always, love, light and gratitude.
Isaya
PS: If you find yourself dreaming of connection or of women’s voices weaving together, trust that. The circle of the Women Lighting the Way Summit is where that dream becomes real. Join us December 12.13.14 2025 here:
https://wltw-2025.heysummit.com/
