Hi friends

If I imagine a younger version of myself, perhaps in my twenties. That ‘me’ would never have pictured my life as it is now.

Becoming a therapist seemed like something only brave people do. Being a jewellery designer with my own business and 11,000 followers online was a world away from where I was, stuck in an office overstimulated, uninspired, underwhelmed, with no confidence.

These dreams take the courage of a super human being that bore no resemblance to me. Being a writer too, for 4000+ people is the stuff my stuttering fourteen year old self didn’t imagine even in wild dreams.

I didn’t know that someone like me could do things like this. I’m still pretty shy, introverted, bruised, and I still sometimes doubt myself. Getting here took courage. I’m sure you understand, it took a lot for you to get where you are too.

Each of these achievements materialised for me because of things going dramatically wrong in my life when young.

The plan that was set for me, to be normal, to please others, to put myself last and to stay small, plus marriage, children, financial security - perhaps, with hindsight, a stifling container, was all put asunder by loss. Because this life that had been set cannot not hold the vast grief that separated me from those around me.

Those patterns that kept me locked in my ‘stay small’ original mindset that could not imagine any such dreams were for me, were incorrect, and not aligned with who I was underneath layers of adaptations towards parental and society’s expectations.

I often write about my two lost babies that changed my life. But the impact wasn’t all bad. In those dark moments, some other magic was waiting for me.

All hope felt lost, and for so long, as the life plan I’d inherited, of family, social standing, being ‘normal’ crumbled into those soft, Cornish winds where their powdery ashes drifted away.

In many ways, I lost everything, my marriage, home, friends, ease, and with it, all the stories of what my life was supposed to be. I had internalised a story that went back generations, through the lines of my family tree, those stories scattered far over the sea too, making space for something new.

It wasn’t just that I lost those little baby girls, I lost the story I’d been given, and I had to find what was mine, in the rubble,

The glowing embers of my true self sparked up, and took the lead. The soulful part that’s entwined with life force itself. This part for me that I had kept locked away, guided me on to new stories that form my life twenty years on, because I had no choice. I’ve healed!

I wonder what you survived thanks to your own flame inside? Maybe you already let some of your stories go? If my life had gone to plan, I would not be here writing this to you today.

If you’ve ever experienced rock bottom and I know many of you have, it is never the end, but a beginning.

As we watch the ashes of our life scatter before us, we can mourn, though the wind will always bring something new.

We don’t have to wait for tragedy to strike. Grief and tragedy does tend to show us a different path. But here at Letters from Therapy we can find that path and all the gold that lines it, whatever happened before.

Many of us live by stories we didn’t write.

I still feel conflict today, between the story that had been given to me, and the story that life wrote for me. I still grieve it, but I follow the glimmers inside me.

What about you?

Those narratives you carry about who you are? Subtle ones like whether you’re someone who succeeds or struggles, whether you’re too much or never enough, whether the world is safe or something to brace against?

All these stories, big and small, mostly got to work long before you were old enough to have any say in the matter.

This is where we are focussing here over this season.

You don’t need a tragedy to discover your true self, your calling, your essence.

We will explore the stories we live by, where they came from, how they shape us in ways we can’t see, and what it might mean to discover something new.

What are your inherited stories?

Long before we have language for it, we are making meaning. A small child doesn’t experience a parent’s withdrawal as ‘they are tired and overwhelmed’. They experience it as ‘something about me’. And from that raw, wordless, and often tragic conclusion if it’s too frequent, the little version of us might believe:

* I am too much

* I am not loveable

* I have to be good to be safe

* I’m not enough

Other stories that often come through families:

* Scarcity stories: “Money runs out.” “You must save everything.” “Luxury is irresponsible.” “Money is greed.”

* Success stories: “People like us don’t do that.” “Don’t get too big for your boots.” “Stay safe rather than dream big.”

* Emotional stories: “Crying is weak.” “Keep your problems to yourself.” “Don’t burden people.”

* Gender stories: “Nice girls don’t speak up.” “Men don’t talk about feelings.” “Your job is to keep the peace.”

* Safety stories: “The world is dangerous.” “Trust no one.” “People will betray you.”

* Identity stories: “You’re too sensitive.” “You’re the difficult one.” “You’re the responsible one.”

The unthought known

The psychoanalyst Christopher Bollas called the earliest layer of this developmental process the unthought known.

The things we know in our bodies, told through our behaviour, before we have any words for them. Were we cuddled enough? Were we a crutch? Were we ignored? Were they disappointed?

The conclusions we drew about life can shape us from the inside out, usually without our awareness. We can live out these stories without realising all through our lives.

Many stories we live by are cultural, passed down through families like furniture. You may carry beliefs that belonged to your grandmother, or her father before her.

My father was born in 1940 at the beginning of the Second World War. The first 11 years of his life were rationed (except as his father, my grandfather, was a GP he was gifted eggs on the side by grateful patients). When I grew up with my brothers in the 70’s and 80’s, it was almost like rationing still took place. My father had internalised the scarcity so deeply, and got stuck there. We didn’t experience the ease that many of our peers did at that time, despite his salary as a doctor which did not leave us lacking at all. Or perhaps it is even further back? His father was very Victorian, and displaying any kind of wealth was considered vulgar.

Our parents will pass on their stories without meaning to. They too were often living their own inherited stories.

Unravelling our stories

When we are more aware, we can choose whether to keep the stories or not. And if not, what do I want instead? We don’t have to entirely reinvent ourselves, but it’s so freeing to feel aligned with the real you!

When you think of your little stories, how far do yours go back?

Think of a belief you hold about yourself. Might your story belong to someone else more than it belongs to you?

Examples: I’m not good with money. I’m too sensitive. Life is always hard. Authority figures are never trustworthy. All men are dangerous. I don’t finish things. I’m destined for xyz. Women with high ponytails are tarty. (My mother told me this, when I proudly swang mine around in 1985 for about five minutes).

Over the coming months, we are unravelling these narratives in the membership. There will also be a members podcast running alongside to listen here or in your favourite app.

To unravel your inherited stories, and everything else in the membership, can join here (it’s cheaper in your browser).

What stories have you inherited?

With love,

Kate

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