I’ve been thinking about the stories we believe are worthy of attention.
Particularly in business, speaking, leadership and in visibility culture generally.
There’s an assumption woven through so much of it that says your story only really matters if something huge happened to you first.
Be it some kind of breakdown, reinvention, dramatic pivot, or something cinematic enough to justify the spotlight afterwards.
And I think a lot of thoughtful people disqualify themselves because of that. They look at their own life and think ‘nothing dramatic enough happened to me. I’ve just lived a normal human life.’
I hear this all the time from people who absolutely do have something meaningful to say.They have years of experience, they care deeply about their work. They have shaped teams, businesses, communities and conversations in powerful ways.
But because their story doesn’t sound like a Netflix documentary trailer, they assume it lacks weight somehow.
I understand why. We’ve inherited a very particular type of storytelling.
The hero’s journey is everywhere once you start noticing it.
Films.
TED Talks.
LinkedIn posts.
Brand messaging.
Business culture.
There’s usually a struggle, then the breakthrough and of course the return. It’s neat and easy to follow. Which means it’s easy to market and reward online.
And I don’t say that critically either because I’ve used that structure myself for years. It shaped my own TEDx talk and a lot of the storytelling work I’ve done with speakers and leaders over time.
But I’ve been looking into what happens when one storytelling structure becomes the dominant lens through which we evaluate an entire human life.
Because most lives are not structured like films and growth doesn’t happen in one defining montage moment.
It can be way smaller or seemingly insignificant.
You realise you’ve spent years apologising for yourself in rooms where you belonged all along.
You stop saying yes when you mean no.
You notice your nervous system has been living in survival mode for so long that peace feels unfamiliar.
You leave a version of yourself gradually behind.
Those stories often feel far more human to me.
Most people know what it feels like to slowly lose themselves or to carry responsibility that feels a bit weighty. .
Most people know what it feels like to hold everything together while wondering why they still feel disconnected from themselves underneath it all.
Those stories matter.
I also think there’s a pressure within leadership and thought leadership spaces to become “the lone hero” in your own narrative. Strong and resilient and visionary.
The person who figured it all out alone and came back carrying wisdom from the mountain top.
But when I look at the moments that genuinely changed me, most of them happened in relationships.
Someone reflected something back to me I couldn’t yet see myself.
Someone opened a door.
Someone created a space where I could stop performing and actually tell the truth.
That feels far more honest than pretending transformation is always an individual pursuit.
And perhaps that’s part of why audiences are becoming tired of overly polished narratives now.
People can sense when a story has been shaped for approval or clicks. They’re craving something more human and grounded and less performative.
Not every meaningful story needs a dramatic plot twist. It could be the turning point is simply becoming more honest about who you are and what you need. Perhaps you’ve been measuring it against a template that was never designed to hold the other parts of being human in the first place.
I dive into this in my latest podcast episode ‘The Story We Inherited’ and I’d love to know what this brings up for you.
Listen here
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