What My Daughter Taught Me About the Stories We Tell Ourselves
My daughter was 10 years old, my son 12.
It was one of the most difficult conversations of my life.
How do you explain to a 10 and 12 year old that you are no longer in love with their mother?
I will never forget that moment. My son and I sitting together on our cozy nest chair where we would often snuggle up to watch a show. My daughter on the couch with their mom. My palms sweating as if I was in a sauna, my heart racing, breath short and my mind spiralling all over the place. How do I open this? Do I just rip the bandaid off? or do I find a gentler approach? I really am not sure how to approach this.
I can’t remember exactly what I opened with, but I think it was some version of “So… Dad’s gonna go stay with Uncle Darryl for a little bit…..”
While I don’t remember the exact words I sure as hell remember the feeling. It was visceral.
Things moved fast after that. I bought a house five minutes down the road in an effort to minimize disruption to the kids lives. We soon found a sad rhythm. Every Sunday evening at 6pm they would come with their laundry basket full of clothes for the week. We were well into the rhythm: one week on, one week off.
Every Sunday evening I stood on the threshold of my new reality, my heart racing, my mind running stories.
Would this be the week the kids wouldn’t show? Would they tell me they’d rather stay with their mom?
The anxiety was unlike anything I’d felt before. My bully mind wasn’t gentle. It provided story after story about why I wasn’t worthy as a father.
You spent too much time at work. You were absent at their games and recitals. They’d be better off with their mom. After all, she raised them while you were away.
Exhausting doesn’t begin to describe it.
Then one Sunday, her mom brought them in and said, “Mikaela has something she wants to talk to you about.”
Oh shit. Here it is. Here it is.
Even as I write this the nervous system responds the same way. I can feel my body tensing. That knot in the pit of my stomach.
My bully mind went full overdrive.
See? I told you. Useless piece of shit as a dad. Now you’re going to pay for those extra hours at the office, the travel trips you justified in the name of building a good life for your family.
SHUT! UP! BRAIN!
It never did.
I looked at my daughter, trying to hold an external composure I didn’t have.
“Well… the back and forth between houses every week is pretty difficult…” she said meekly.
Oh fuck. Here it comes.
“I know, sweets. And I’m sorry.”
“So I was thinking… maybe we could do two weeks at a time? So we don’t have to go back and forth so often?”
Halle-fucking-lujah. Are you kidding me right now?
That’s it? That’s what you want?
Suck it, bully brain!
“Absolutely, sweets. That sounds like a really good idea.”
The truth is that would work out far better for my schedule and allow me to be more fully immersed when they were with me.
Phew! What a relief!
And just like that my nervous system is back in a regulated state. I now have room to breathe.
What did this story teach me?
This is another example of me choosing a story that caused me a lot of pain that ultimately wasn’t even true.
Self-sabotage through narrative choice.
Has that ever shown up for you? Choosing the most catastrophic story possible? The question I have is why?
While I cannot always control the things that happen in my life I can always control the story I tell myself. And while I am still not that great at making the best choices, that gives me a great deal comfort knowing that I have agency.
Familiarity feels true
If you have experienced a similar situation in the past, it is much easier to hold on to that story. What we are familiar with feels like it must be true.
Catastrophic thinking feels protective
Have you ever justified catastrophic thinking by telling yourself “If I think the worst, then I can’t be hurt.” I know I have. It really is a silly thought though. Why suffer later when you can suffer now, right? Oiy!
Shame and unworthiness
My bully brain was telling me very specific things: I was absent, I prioritized work, I don’t deserve to be a present father. That’s not random catastrophizing. That was my internalized critic leveraging real evidence (I did work late, I did miss things) to build a case for my fundamental inadequacy. The catastrophic story confirms a deeper belief I already held about myself.
Ambiguity is intolerable
In the absence of information our brain makes shit up. Tasha Eurich has done a lot of research on self-reflection and the importance of moving from “Why” to “What”. When we ask why our brain tends to make things up because it doesn’t like the void. What we don’t know about a situation gets populated with made up data.
Punishment as penance
How often have you held on to current suffering because you “deserved” it for past transgressions? Enough said.
The Solution: Cognitive Reappraisal
The solution in psychological terms is called Cognitive Reappraisal. Essentially it is the practice of actively choosing an alternative story to reduce the emotional impact of an event or situation. I am not talking about denial. I am not talking about toxic positivity. I am talking about being a proactive participant in your own life.
Often we don’t know what the truth of a situation is. Why wouldn’t we choose the version that is most useful? In my case multiple stories could have been true. I chose the most painful one.
Cognitive Reappraisal is one of the most studied emotion regulation strategies. Research consistently shows it is effective for managing anxiety, depression, and emotional reactivity.
James Gross (Stanford) is probably the most cited researcher on this. He developed the Process Model of Emotion Regulation, which positions cognitive reappraisal as a specific, measurable strategy distinct from other regulation approaches like suppression or distraction.
Kevin Ochsner at Columbia took this further. Using neuroimaging, he showed what reappraisal actually looks like in the brain. When you choose a second story, your prefrontal cortex, the thinking brain, activates. Your amygdala, the threat brain, quiets down.
Suppression does the opposite. You might look calm on the outside. But the amygdala keeps firing. The body stays in threat mode.
That’s the difference between choosing a second story and just white-knuckling through the first one.
Now that we know better, the question becomes how do we do better? Enter the Connection Lab.
The Experiment: The Second Story
Here’s what I want you to practice this week.
The next time you catch your bully brain running a story, do this.
Step 1: Notice the story.
What are you telling yourself about what just happened? Write it down if you can. “She’s pulling away.” “He doesn’t respect me.” “They’d be better off without me.”
Step 2: Name it as a story.
Not a fact. Stories feel like facts. They aren’t. The first story your brain generates is almost always fear-based, threat-oriented, and self-referential. That’s not weakness. That’s how the threat response works. It’s fast, it’s loud, and it doesn’t care whether it’s true.
Step 3: Offer a second story.
One that’s equally plausible. Not toxic positivity. Not denial. Just another interpretation that fits what you actually know. “She’s overwhelmed.” “He’s carrying something I can’t see.” “My daughter has a solution.”
Step 4: Choose.
Which story gives you the most useful information? Which one leaves you room to act, to connect, to lead? Move from that story. Not the first one.
This is not a guarantee that your second story is right. You don’t know the right story. So you may as well choose the useful one. And the first story? In my experience, it almost never is.
In the absence of information, your brain will manufacture the most painful version of events it can find. Every time. So give it some competition.
You are always working from a story. The only question is whether you authored it or inherited it from your own threat response.
This week: catch it once. Just once. Name the first story. Write a second one. Choose.
That’s it. That’s the whole experiment.
