When the Story Crashes: Is it Time for a New Narrator?

My mother bowed out of mothering when I was 13.

"It's a two-way street," my mother told me as we warmed ourselves over the floor heater in my Northern California home. "I am not here to just listen to you."

Sometime not long after that, my mother told me I was "the most self-centered child on earth."

I believed it.

That's how I lost my mother.

The story of being a "motherless child" was one my core creation stories.

Anyone listening to my story would validate me, praise me on how strong I was, how amazing that I turned out okay.

Secretly, I envied my friends whose mothers presumably listened endlessly to the woes of growing up.

I yearned for a "real" mom.

Though I eventually realized that teenagers are supposed to be somewhat self-centered -- that's their job -- for years, I was still dogged by the fear that if I am not all-giving, I will not be loved.

This was the story. It was the story of how Susan Came to Be.

I am strong, independent. I'm an overcomer. My worthiness became rooted in triumphing over hardship.

I heard myself telling the story again: How I became my own mother, blah blah blah.

It was the blah blah blah that got me.

I'd been telling it for so long, that I did not consider there might be another version.

I was getting bored of the story. I'd lost the emotional investment.

I no longer felt anything about it.

That's how my story crashed.

It didn't make a big sound.

Because the crash was the sound of acceptance: the narrative mask has disintegrated.

The story was no longer serving my growth.

What had once protected me was now holding me back.

Awakening was like finding myself in a house of mirrors.

Without it, who was I?

Who would I be without something difficult to overcome?

Would I be lovable without something to prove?

That was the most damaging part of the story: that being lovable was inextricably linked to achievements and selflessness.

I felt a sudden urge to find a new creation story -- one that didn't depend on my overcoming.

Something greater, more sustainable.

Emotional neglect may be part of the story, but it does not make me inherently lovable or admirable.

Facts are one thing. But who is the telling the story changes everything.

The story of my mom and me was the first big story crash of my life.

But there have been more since: the suffering wife, whose husband cheated on her, the mother of an addict. This list goes on.

We all have them.

What's your current story?

Who is the narrator of story?

We need these stories to carry on, climb out of the mess and hopefully learn something.

At what point is your story no longer about survival and now actually inhibiting your growth?

Are you a suffering doctor, who's given your life to the profession?

Are you a lawyer who cares "too much"?

Are you a single parent who's done everything for your child?

Are you an athlete trying to make it to the big leagues, against all odds?

What is your hero journey?

Which part of yourself is narrating the story?

How does the current perspective serve you?

What's at risk if you change it?

When the story crashes, we have the most to learn.

Story crashes allow for the light to come in. Letting the story of my mother's abandonment go has allowed me to have a new relationship with her -- even in the depth of her Alzheimer's.

I have a new story now: Mom and Susan have formed a relationship of the souls. In her silence, we speak, soul to soul.

We had a rough road, both of us. And here we are, loving each other.