We tell ourselves stories about the events in our lives, and we tell them with such fervor and frequency that we often forget that they are just stories. We build our little narratives like castles in the sand. We convince ourselves these places are safe for us and we take up residence. Make a home for ourselves in these fragile worlds we’ve created.

But then eventually the waves come, the waves always come. And it doesn’t take much, the small swelling and pulling of the tide and the foundation of our little castles begin to ebb and sink.

Am I okay?

Just the smallest wave lapping at my feet, just a simple sentence spoken by a man whose opinion I swore I’d never care about, and everything begins to dissolve. Just the smallest indication that my story is not the same story others are telling themselves, and I fling myself uncaringly out into traffic.

Do I truly have so little control of mind?

But my story is true right, weren’t they wrong about me?