I was raised with the myth of Santa, a story I held onto longer than you would think a rational person could. I was a serious kid who cringed at baby talk and looked grown-ups in the eye, but by December each year I really wanted to believe that reindeer would land on my roof and a giant elf would come down my chimney to put peppermint in a giant sock for me. I loved everything about this story, so I let myself have it for as long as possible. Santa is making me think about the power of our stories.
Recently a client was describing his interactions with the overwhelmed and busy leadership team he works for. He explained that he didn’t want to “bother them.” He tried to have as few needs as possible and to be extremely efficient when he encountered them. I liked his efforts to be efficient. Otherwise, his story about his leadership team seemed to be making him smaller.
“Don’t you have information they need?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. Then he smiled. “I can hear as I’m talking, how much I’m undervaluing myself. I’m focusing on taking up as little space as possible instead of providing as much value as possible.” This is an important distinction because “not taking up space” is on no one’s list of career building tips.
Someone else told me a similar narrative about one of his big clients, focusing on how busy and successful his client is. I offered, “You have a story in your head about who this person is that is making you feel insecure about being at the table. He’s just some guy who needs your expertise.”
My client smiled and said, “That’s interesting.”
“Is it true?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
The story we tell ourselves about the people we are interacting with has a huge impact on our ability to show up the way we want to with them. We are especially prone to unhelpful narratives with people in positions of power in our lives.
Another client was expressing her doubts about what she has to offer in her new job. She described herself as someone who is always nervous speaking in front of people, should be better at strategic thinking, and is uncertain about her ability to learn everything necessary to meet the huge expectations of her new role. “What a fascinating version of her story!” I thought. My version of her story is: “Here is a woman who tirelessly pushes past her own comfort zones by taking on new challenges, including seeking out this role. She refuses to let her fear of public speaking get in her way, usually saying “yes” when asked and trusted to take on something new. She found and pays for an executive coach so that she can think through strategy and continue to improve and operate at her peak potential.” We started to focus on these differing versions of her story and I’m happy to report this more positive, empowering version of her narrative is becoming her own.
Someone else I see is surrounded by thoughtful people who want to provide feedback about why people consistently leave his team. They offer to give their perspective and each time he refuses. I wonder what story he is holding onto. What story about himself or the world would this feedback shatter? Coaches must respect the stories clients craft about themselves and the world. We look for ways to challenge the stories that are holding them back or doing harm while not unraveling the ones that are holding them together. Certainly there are some stories people are not yet ready to let go. Ideally, at the least, we can raise awareness of narrative in general; its great power over us and our potential for power over it.
My blogs have touched on a wide variety of limiting stories: the ones about not having enough time, not being good enough, prepared enough, qualified enough; the ones where we are not the person in the room that should be speaking up or calling something out. We tell ourselves little stories about ourselves and others all day long. Perhaps a good New Year’s resolution would be to take note, kindly and gently, of these little stories we tell, and how they feed our bigger stories. Then, follow the thread of those stories and ask how they are or aren’t serving you. Which parts of your narratives are grounding and fueling you and which might be let go so that you can try out something new? What will become possible when you begin re-writing?
The Santa story served me well for many years—a welcome relief to a child overly concerned with grown-up matters. But there came a time to let it go to discover what could take its place. After Santa, I gained an increased understanding of the generosity of parenting. I found new ways to create magic for myself and others and came better to understand the value of tradition. In letting go of Santa I could recognize and take ownership of how much I wanted to be child-like and wonder-filled during the holidays. Which, deep into my adulthood, hasn’t changed a single bit.