Breaking Up with My Inner Storyteller (They Were Kinda Dramatic Anyway)

Let me just say this outright: breaking up with your inner storyteller is way harder than ghosting that situationship who never texted back.

Why? Because your inner storyteller lives in your head. Rent free. All the time. They’ve been narrating your life since you were old enough to wonder if your third-grade teacher actually hated you, or if they just needed a snack and a nap.

But let’s back up.

The Brain Loves a Good Plot (Even if It’s Fiction)

Here’s the thing: the brain hates uncertainty. Hates it. Like, refreshing-your-email-while-hugging-a-pillow-and-Googling-‘do they hate me or are they just busy? level hate. So, when something confusing or painful happens—someone doesn’t call back, a friend gets quiet, a message goes unanswered—your mind leaps into action.

“Let’s make meaning out of this,” it says, cracking its knuckles.
“Let’s add context, flashbacks, and a dramatic twist while we’re at it.”

And just like that, you’re starring in your own mental soap opera.
Only… it’s not truth. It’s perception dressed up as reality—like a raccoon in a lab coat calling itself a doctor. (Charming. But highly questionable.)

Our inner storyteller strings together past experiences, old wounds, assumptions, and fears to make sense of life. But just because a story feels familiar doesn’t mean it’s true.

The Story Might Sound Like…

“They didn’t invite me, they must not like me.”

“That silence means I did something wrong.”

“If I show up fully, people will judge me.”

“People always leave. I must not be lovable.”

“They seemed off today—it must be because of something I said.”

“If I rest, I’m being lazy. I have to earn my worth.”

“If I set boundaries, they’ll leave or think I’m selfish.”

“If I speak my truth, I’ll be misunderstood or rejected.”

Sound familiar?

We take limited information and turn it into a sweeping emotional saga. Drama, rejection, self-doubt, maybe a touch of ominous background music.

And the wildest part?
We believe it.
We live by it.
Even when it’s not rooted in fact.

The Problem With These Stories?

They feel real.
And feelings are powerful—but feelings are not facts.

When we don’t question the inner narrator, we hand over the pen and let them write the entire script of our lives—without proofreading. Suddenly, we’re not living in truth. We’re living in old patterns and outdated beliefs.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I broke up with them.

Not with anger.
Not with shame.
Just with love.
Because they meant well.
But they were keeping me stuck. Small. Caught in a loop of fear dressed up as insight.

How I Knew It Was Time

• I was confusing protection with wisdom.

• I was more committed to staying safe than growing.

• I kept revisiting the same scenes—different faces, same plot.

• I realized my stories weren’t evolving, because I wasn’t letting them.

And honestly? I just wanted peace. Not plot twists.

But Wait—We Don’t Have to Kick Them Out

Here’s the twist: you don’t have to evict your inner storyteller.
What if, instead of firing them, you gave them a new job?

Because let’s be honest: they’re incredibly creative. Devoted, even.
They’ve been trying to protect you from pain in the only way they know how.

So instead of saying, “You’re done here,” I said:

Thank you for helping me survive.
You’ve worked hard trying to make sense of things that felt scary and unpredictable.
But we’re not in survival mode anymore.
It’s time to step out of fear and into truth.

I’d love for you to keep telling stories—but the kind that empower me.
Stories of healing. Of courage. Of change.
Stories that honor the past but are no longer bound by it.”

I gave them a promotion.

Now, instead of being the voice of worst-case scenarios and childhood echoes, they’ve become the keeper of meaning. The truth-teller. The wisdom weaver.

They still tell stories—but now they’re rooted in presence, not panic.

How to Rewrite the Script

1. Interrupt the Story Mid-Sentence
   Ask: “What story am I telling myself right now?”
   Just naming it creates space for clarity.

2. Fact-Check It
   What do I actually know to be true? What am I assuming, interpreting, or projecting?

3. Personify the Narrator
   Picture them as a quirky character: dramatic, well-meaning, and prone to exaggeration. Humor helps create distance. You might even name them—mine's Rachel, a little extra and a lot persistent.

4. Unburden Them
   Say something like: “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I’m safe now. Let’s tell stories of what’s possible.”

5. Write a New Chapter
   Don’t just react. Create. You get to choose a narrative that reflects your growth, not just your wounds.

So what about you?

What story are you ready to rewrite?

What if the narrator in your head became an ally, not a saboteur?
What if you let go of the scripts that no longer reflect who you’re becoming?

You don’t have to burn the book.
Just start a new chapter.

Let your inner storyteller evolve from fear-driven fiction writer to soul-scribe.
Give them the pen.
Give them purpose.
And most importantly—give them the truth to work with.