Self-Talk: What is your story?

It is about 9 pm, a Monday evening, and as many other Monday evenings before I struggle not to fall asleep on the bedside of my two years and an-half old daughter. At this exact moment, I’m actually quite surprised to find the energy to write and share my humble thoughts on self-talk and how the stories we tell ourselves are often time distorted from reality.

Tonight at work, one of our partners will be leading an exciting series of workshops on storytelling and self-narrative. As I leave the attic that is now my formal office, I realize how frustrated I am for not being able to attend any of these trainings. I’m trapped by other personal family commitments and duties: my kids are waiting for me downstairs, as well as my daily routine of endless housework tasks (cooking dinner, supervising homework, playing with the kids, cleaning dishes, bedtime..). Where will come the time where I could simply go down these stairs, free from any professional or personal responsibilities? My life seems to be a continuum of chores. Every morning, I dim the light of my bathroom so that I can’t see the effect of another sleepless night. My eyes, my cheeks, and my month are lacking the energy to lift themselves up, overload by fatigue. In these dull moments, I usually wish to have more strength, wisdom, and patience for myself and for people whom I love so dearly. Since the pandemic started, it hasn’t always been easy to find the vitality to capitulate and “accept” the monotony of the days, the gloominess of the grey sky, the continued rain. Is my experience relatable, ordinary, typical of our modern lives? During difficult times, how do people narrate their own stories? What words do their conscious or unconscious mind uses to depict their experience? Are these words uplifting, reassuring, or quite the contrary? Are these stories accurate?

From the warmth, coziness, and safety of my living room, I now found a bit of rest, and enjoy the restorative power of a quiet house. I lighted up the fireplace, its warmth fills me up. The heat is tingling my eyelids and my cheeks. All the objects around me: the grey sofa, the transparent vase that holds a couple of Lilys, the cookbooks from our tiny library are surrounded by gold and bronze colors. The space has warmed-up and soften. I feel calm and serene. What if the way I portray my life was unreliable and inaccurate? What truth do our struggles hold?

Behind our tiredness and exhaustion, I see beautiful and meaningful battles happening. These dark circles under our eyes are like dissolvable tattoos that state that nothing is permanent, our struggles are building us, they reinforce who we are by reminding us what we don’t want, what we despise, what we need or miss.

I miss the freedom of having endless nights, eating, dancing, talking with my love and dear friends,

I need quiet, simple moments where I choose to be alone to reflect and restore my energy,

I despise vanity, selfishness, and hypocrisy,

I want more time to explore and connect,

I cherish early mornings when my daughter squeezes her little hand into my palm and hearing the sound of our coffee machine brewing my first cup of espresso.

May life help me understand other people's lives and battles so that I can relate and grow with them.

How about you my friends? What is your story? Your true story?