The Story We Tell Ourselves

Go where the depth is.

We all carry a story beneath our skin. Not the one we share at dinner tables or in polite conversations, but the quiet one - the one whispered in the back of our minds when the world goes still. It’s the story that shapes how we move, how we love, how we shrink, how we rise.

For many women, especially the deeply empathetic ones, this story is rarely linear. It bends. It bruises. It softens. It rewrites itself in the margins of everyday life.

She is the woman who feels everything - her own emotions, the emotions of others, the unspoken tension in a room, the subtle shift in someone’s tone. Her empathy is her superpower, but it can also become the ink that writes a narrative she never meant to live.

She tells herself she must be gentle. She tells herself she must be strong. She tells herself she must hold it all together. She tells herself she must not take up too much space.

And yet, every time she sits down with her journal, her keyboard, or even the quiet of her own breath, she begins again. She rewrites. She questions. She edits the lines she inherited and the ones she absorbed without noticing.

She learns that the story she tells herself is not fixed. It is clay. It is breath. It is a draft - one she is allowed to tear apart and begin anew.

In this rewriting, she becomes a little more untamed. A little more honest. A little more her.

She discovers that empathy doesn’t mean erasing herself. It means understanding herself deeply enough to choose a different ending.

And so she writes again. And again. And again.