“So, what’s your story?”
And the existential anxiety that takes over when pondering how to respond.
And the existential anxiety that takes over when pondering how to respond.
“So, what’s your story?” he asks me at the coffee shop after he had taken his turn telling me a bit about himself and his work.
I smile and flounder a bit. This is such a broad question. I despise this question. What IS my story? Where do I begin? Do I start with my childhood? About how I was a shy and socially awkward youth? Do I talk about my relatively recent realization that my parents (especially my dad) had a profound effect on who I am today? That I’m grateful for my family, but so painfully aware that my desire for recognition and belonging is probably due to the fact that my dad was rarely present and engaged in our lives; and my mom worked so hard to put food on the table that she was too exhausted when she got home that there was very little quality one-on-one time with her. Even still, she always had a hug and gentle touch for each of us.
Or, do I start my story as a teen. Do I mention that I was punched in the face by a girl in a grade below me when I was 13? That the experience made me terrified of other girls for years. All because “I looked at her the wrong way.” I could include the fact that I dropped out of high school for fear of saying or doing the wrong thing and getting beat up again.
Maybe I start it as a young adult, when I started to gain some blind confidence by becoming a woman. The independence of moving out of the family home
(should I mention that the “family home” I lived in was a townhouse next door to my parents’ “love nest” of an apartment, shared with my brother and younger sister?),
going to college, feeling desired by men. I could mention that I met who I thought was my dream guy. Tall, handsome, fit, popular, fun and a bit of a bad boy. Dropping out of college. Eventually got married and had a couple of kids.
But, maybe it’s better to start my story after my separation 13 years later? This is when I feel I came alive again. Trying new activities, rediscovering old interests long forgotten, exploring myself and the world, being more present with our kids.
No, maybe my story starts with the existential crisis I went through a few years after the separation. The inability to work for six months due to crippling anxiety. The shell of a person I became for a few years. The bankruptcy. I could talk about how this was the best thing that ever happened to me. I woke up.
Or I could simply start by sharing my story of the last few years. Of launching a new consulting business with a partner, of achieving more confidence and success in work and life, of challenging myself physically by training for and completing a sprint triathlon. That I still struggle daily with feelings of low self-worth, but that I am much better equipped with the tools to work through the challenging emotions.
How does one begin to answer an open-ended question like “So, what’s your story?” What is a story anyway? Is my story the experiences I’ve had or is it the kind of person I am because of those experiences?
Who am I anyway? I am me. A resilient soul. Quite transparent and open, equal parts introvert and extrovert (maybe a bit more introverted these days,) loving, loyal and spontaneous. Gets bored easily but your go-to person to start a new project. Committed to my family and closest friends. Committed to giving back to my community, and nurturing my kids by taking care of myself so that I can be the best role model I can be for them.
“So, what’s your story?” ❤