Stories are an anchor.
“Read it again,” the child says to her dad in bed, as he sighs with both exhaustion and affection before starting over for the third time.
For whatever reason, we embed stories into our minds from a young age. Maybe we need them as anchors to help us make sense of the world. Without them, we’d be unmoored, floating through existence with nothing to hold onto.
Maybe it’s also why I’ve loved stories for as long as I can remember. Comics, videogames, movies, TV, novels, Bible stories, sports. (This past weekend I went to Comic Con in NYC, because apparently I still haven’t outgrown the stories, the worlds, the anchors.)
Stories that run our lives aren’t just the ones we read, watch, or have been told. They’re the ones we tell ourselves. The meaning we assigned to events. The interpretations we made when we were too unaware, too hurt, or too confused to see clearly.
Those stories run deep.
When you do enough inner work to look at your past with less subjectivity, you give yourself the gift of the bigger perspective. But how do you do that? What do you do when it’s time to let go of some of those stories?
It can feel like trying to uproot an oak with your bare hands — you’ll exhaust yourself and the tree will still be standing. Rather than pull them out, I’ve experienced a more expansive way. I will, of course, share a story to illustrate this.
Sometimes the Best Way to Delete a File is to Save Over It
When I was going through the middle of a divorce back in 2018, I was invited to speak at a conference near Disney World, hosted by Terry Weaver. I told Terry I’d need time to think about it because the last time I was at Disney was with my ex-wife right before we got married. The memories were a lot to deal with.
He said something I’ll never forget: “Sometimes the best way to delete a file is to save over it.” Sold. I accepted the invite and my good friend Jeff Goins was also speaking there, so I ended up making a lot of fun memories.
Not every story you rewrite requires speaking engagements, Disney trips, or travel. Most are small things that take you by surprise. When you go through seismic events like divorce, you have to learn to do a lot of things alone again.
For me, going grocery shopping alone was the worst. I didn’t really cook at home for three years… it was the last story I had to rewrite. (If you’re in that place now, I see you. You’ll make it.)
***
Sometimes, rewriting is just the start.
For some people, letting go of your stories only comes through transmuting those stories into something of material consequence. I think it’s because these things can serve as memorial stones in your life, a way of crafting those emotions into something tangible you (and the world, if you choose to share) can see to make it all matter.
Some travel to far off places. Some go skydiving, or scale a mountain. Some draw, paint, or write music. For me, it’s been writing.
Surprising, because I pretty much hated every moment of writing my first solo book. I’d signed a publishing deal three years earlier but got sidetracked by the divorce. When I finally sat down to write, my skills had gone soft from years of only writing marketing copy. The book was a symbol of something I should have had years earlier if it weren’t for this catastrophe—and I felt completely unequipped to pull it off.
There’s no magic pill when it comes to rewriting stories in your life… or writing a book. You just keep pushing forward. Sometimes things come easily. Other times you want to throw your laptop (or life) against the wall.
“I’ll be damned if I let these hardships keep me from being my best!” I’d say this often. Eventually, you’ll have to decide to do the same.
When my book hit the Wall St. Journal & USA Today bestseller list, I mailed a copy to my ex with a short note thanking her for being part of the journey I had to live in order to write it. We’d ended things amicably, so I really meant it. And yes, I admit there was a tiny part of me that was saying, “How you like me now.” But two things can be true at the same time.
These days I write more about these rebirths I’ve experienced. The pain is gone, the scars have healed, and in many cases the relationships are mended. The final episodes of those shows have aired, so I share them hoping they help anyone who’s still in the middle of their story.
This past week I shared how proud I was of my clients. Many are writing books, and several have published books earlier this year. One person told me: “This content of this book is the reason I came to this world.”
What’s Trying to Claw Its Way Out?
It often takes another person to see the embryonic work that’s trying to sprout.
Back in 2018 (gosh, a lot happened that year) I hosted a small conference in Austin, Texas. I invited my friend Kevin to speak because he’d never had video footage of himself, and we thought this would be a great opportunity to capture a solid recording for his speaking career.
He sent me his slides beforehand so we could work on the talk together. After looking through them, I shared some feedback:
“I don’t know you any better after reading these slides. I could have a robot deliver this talk. How about we follow a rule: no quoting dead people. They aren’t at the event. You are.”
This simple shift transformed his speech, and he delivered the closing keynote to a spontaneous and well-earned standing ovation.
When we went to our post conference dinner and karaoke hangout, he asked several of the other speakers, “Hey, I noticed that you guys quoted dead people in your speeches. Didn’t Mike say you couldn’t do that?”
They looked confused. “Mike didn’t tell us we couldn’t.”
Kevin laughed and took it well. I shared that recommendation only with him because he hid behind other people’s voices too much.
***
Kevin isn’t alone, of course. I come across many people who have become so used to quoting others, leaning on frameworks they didn’t create, or stories that others wrote for them that they’ve lost their voice. They’re like Simba trying to roar for the first time.
If it makes you feel something — fear, nostalgia, pride, terror — you’re moving in the right direction. I often tell my clients, “If you feel something when writing it, there’s a chance your reader will feel it, too.”
Honestly, it takes emotion to write some of the things I share nowadays. I wonder if I’m committing professional suicide, if I should just stick to branding and marketing like I have for the past ten years.
But then I remember: emotion is just energy in motion. That energy is trying to tell you something.
Start with what’s clawing its way out of you. You overwrite the file by living new experiences in the same spaces, turning pain into something useful. If you feel pulled to create something from your experiences, don’t ignore it. For some people, the only way to stop re-reading their last chapter is to create their way out of it.
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Watching my clients birth their books this year has been one of the most meaningful parts of my work. If you’re ready to turn your experiences into something tangible—something with material consequence—I’m hosting an accelerator this fall to help you ideate, write, and market your book.
Get on the Waiting List here »
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