The Stories We Tell Ourselves

and others

Photo by Reuben Juarez on Unsplash

Humans make meaning. It’s wired into us. I haven’t studied this in an academic institution so everything I say here just represents my theories informed by other things I’ve read and experienced and how I, ahem, have made meaning of what I’ve learned. I think this meaning-making instinct(? not sure if this cognitive mechanism would be called an instinct) might be one of the drivers that keeps us bonded in social groups which humans need to be a successful species. So why am I writing about this?

In Defining “Trans”, I talk about some of the needs that teens are filling by convincing themselves they’re transgender. And make no mistake, this identity is working to meet needs for them–or they wouldn’t bother. Clearly one of these needs is, indeed, being bonded to a social group: one with lots of social capital in the form of influence and entitlement to special treatment. It’s also filling the need of escaping affiliation with another, much maligned group that has negative social capital right now. Remember, we’re talking adolescents here. It’s a logical survival strategy to adopt the single avenue offered out of one class and into the other. 

The practicality of this need combined with the alluring story that if you’re experiencing the typical discomfort associated with changes in your adolescent body, there’s a simple (albeit privileged and capitalist) solution to solve all your problems, and truly it’s no wonder you’re here reading this article. Your child has figured out how to navigate a very difficult period in their lives that presents a unique and bizarre set of challenges. This is actually quite clever and to be expected. Really, what choice did they have? 

And it only works because of our human capacity for meaning making. Because we’re so damn good at weaving stories around circumstances in the way that will best serve our desires. If we desire an easy-ish life where we don’t have to take responsibility for difficult things, where others believe us to be fragile and in need of protection, it makes sense in this place and time to embrace a story of oppression–not just to convince those who’ve vowed to protect us, but to convince ourselves. When we really want something, most of us will (unconsciously) do whatever it takes to convince ourselves of the necessary details to support the desired course of action.

Humans are storytellers. I so wish I could remember the source where I first heard that developing the capacity for weaving fiction is what allowed human groups to scale. (I was in the car and likely tuned to NPR of which I was once an avid listener, but I don’t recall which program.) Size of human groups was very limited until we could tell the stories that would bond us together in meaningful cause. It’s through these fictions that we interpret reality and find belonging through shared metaphors. It’s pretty amazing actually—the human brain, and how important these metaphors are to how we perceive our world and the circumstances we encounter, which in turn determines how we respond to both our world and these circumstances. 

So with any given set of circumstances–which are composed of observable, neutral facts–as humans, we tend to quickly encase them in meaning. We add qualifiers and assume intentions of other people involved in the circumstances. We’re usually at the center of the story, because, well, it’s our story! The person making meaning of the events is the main character to which the events are happening. Mind you, I imagine this might be a very Western way of interpreting circumstances, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I’ve not studied other cultures in any depth, but I feel like I do get this idea of lens and know my own cognition evolved along with my development of the English language as it’s used in the part of the United States where I grew up. This enmeshed cognition/language/culture development is combined with the meaning I’ve been making through my 52 years of cumulative experiences to form my unique storytelling style, or my lens, or my model. What I’m doing right now is known as metacognition, or thinking about thinking. Recognizing this is how our brain works and that you have a model helps you have some control over that model. This is very powerful knowledge because, if you choose to exercise it, you now have the capacity to change your story. 

These stories we tell ourselves can have a major impact on our quality of life. Like seriously, how are things going for you? What stories are you telling yourself? Are you failing your child? Is the world against you? Are you a victim? Will medicalization ruin your child’s and your family’s lives? Even the questions we ask are shaped by that enmeshed development that I describe in the previous paragraph.

I wanted to write about humans as storytellers for a few reasons. Not just to remind you that you can take charge of your experience and practice reframing circumstances in a way that will improve your quality of life. By doing this you also model responsibility for your trans-Ided child who is working really hard to weave a victim story around their circumstances. Personally, I think these are excellent reasons to pay attention to the stories we’re telling ourselves and revise the meaning to serve the best interest of ourselves and our children. 

Yet, I’ve had some conversations recently that have caused me to really examine this approach. I’m someone who is very adverse to victim stories, someone who takes full responsibility for my current state and the quality of my life. I cringe at the idea of impotence and victimhood. (I like to think this part of my lens was consciously developed, but I’ve come to wonder if it’s more cultural than I want to admit.) I’ve spoken often about my faith in my child to see through the fiction of transgenderism and its supposed oppressed status. I wanted her to acknowledge that she has choices in how she addresses her discomfort with her body and her biological sex. And she has done this. 

So now, what if she chooses to medicalize? Have I modeled too much responsibility for my outcomes? Have I contributed to her idea that those who have detransitioned are solely responsible for their actions? My intent has always been to preserve the pathway back to womanhood. Has this approach done that? Or have I reinforced the idea that once you start changing your body, you’ve essentially “burned the ships”? She is indeed a victim of carefully curated messaging delivered by both peers and trusted adults who are themselves victims of the spin. Might she need a victim story to find self-compassion?

The venom with which she speaks about detransitioners concerns me. It seems crucial now that I help her soften toward them. I hope to help her see their stories of courage and that in my story, she’s just as courageous. In my mind, revising her narrative so that she can somehow find compassion for them—regardless of what she chooses to do in her own early adulthood—could be the most important seed left to plant in her psyche. I hope I’ve done enough to model forgiving oneself of choices that lead to painful outcomes. I’ve been trying, and the concept of responsibility is incessantly nagging at me. Like with all of this now, when does this become her work? I can only do so much. Will she allow the seed to germinate and take root in her story? Can she keep her story open-ended?

Another reason this topic has been on my mind is because of those we call “success stories.” You know the ones I mean: the families (we envy) whose children desist before they’ve altered their bodies, or even better, with only months spent believing they were the opposite sex. I’ll admit to some complicated feelings here. Yes, I am one of those people who had to process through some jealousy and find hope and gratitude in my own circumstances to be able to release these negative feelings. I also think ambivalence is very normal and that it’s possible to feel inspired by and relieved for, while still experiencing envy of families who dodged the medicalization bullet and recovered with some of the adolescent years still ahead. While I’m (now genuinely and completely) happy for these families and deeply grateful that the children and their loved ones were spared the majority of the pain that moves into our homes along with the trans identity, I’ve come to believe we really need to expand our definition of what comprises a success story.  

I think we need to be careful about insisting our children are going to “ruin their lives” if they proceed with medically invasive interventions. While words like “mutilation” and “butchering” are provocative and express our values and our pain, we must be cautious about for whom we paint this morbid picture. If our intent is truly to preserve the pathway home to family and womanhood (or manhood) then self-compassion may be the most important trait to model and encourage. Our children need to know there is still the chance for a good life, one in which not only their family loves them and sees past their scars, but that there are potential mates who will do the same. We might need to lift up stories of people who are truly happier on the other side of what we deem tragic circumstances. It’s time to start communicating that there are as many ways to create a success story as there are ways to be a woman. 

I also think we need to stop framing these years spent dealing with trans-identification in the home as a loss and try not to focus on all the typical adolescent experiences our children (and ourselves) have “missed out on”. We need to grieve the adolescence we thought our children would have and embrace the one they’re living so they don’t own the story of “wasted years”. Let’s focus on our current success stories! What precious experiences have you had that you wouldn’t have if things had been more normal in your home? What have you learned about yourself? How have you grown stronger than you were before? Humans are also wired to overcome obstacles–so much so that in their absence we’ll seek or create them for ourselves. (Another need being filled by our children who’ve swaddled themselves in a transgender story.) 

Who knows what your child’s adolescence would have looked like had she not taken on the trans story and made it her own? What other story might she have told herself about who she is and who you are? We’ll never know. This is where we are and this is happening to (for?) your family. How can you make meaning of this in a way that not only improves your quality of life but ensures your child knows your door and your heart are always open? How can you speak to your child so she gets a solid sense that we’re all just human, and humans regularly encounter circumstances that lead to great pain—I’d guess most young adults choose some experiences they’re eventually ashamed of—but that there’s always a way forward, and life continues. 

Don’t we all have messy histories with certain stories we’d rather not tell? (Or is that just me?) I know our children may wear the scars that make the stories of their adolescence impossible to hide, adding extra health burdens as well. This is indeed tragic, yet it’s hard to know what the future holds and what circumstances will require the strength we’re developing right now through this experience with our brilliant children. That this strength I’ve recognized in myself is serving me, that the strength my daughter is developing will serve her, that the strength this has required of my family continues to bond us together and serve us well; this is one of the stories I’m telling myself. It’s a success story. What type of story are you weaving? Tragedy? Horror? Redemption? Is it the story of a hero’s journey? Here’s what (I think) I know: a full, rich human story will probably contain all those genres. And the moral and meaning of the story can be what you need it to be to keep going. Hopefully, this article demonstrates that it’s okay to make revisions—not of the facts, like what our children have done with the stories of their younger years—but of the meaning. We can’t rewrite our histories, but we can create gratitude for our circumstances and tap into our capacity to overcome adversity.

And one more thing, no matter where you (and your child) are in your story, it’s not over yet.