GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD
Own Your Story
In my midtwenties, I took a business trip to San Francisco. I had been asked to go receive training for a new job (one that didn’t make me want to ask God to break my legs). I’d never been to the city before and decided to stay an extra couple of days to see the sights.
During my stay I had the opportunity to bike across the Golden Gate Bridge, and to this day I count that experience as one of my favorite adventures of all time. My ride went exactly according to plan—a few miles along the coastline, a steep uphill climb to enter the path leading to the bridge, a cruise across the bridge overlooking the bay, and a smooth downhill sail to the quaint town of Sausalito, where I ate lunch, rested, and then headed back across the bay by ferry.
Perfect.
Almost a decade later, I decided to relive that San Francisco adventure, this time with my daughter and a girlfriend. I was, of course, excited about taking them to see the city I’d fallen in love with ten years before, but I was especially interested in introducing them to that fantastically flawless experience of biking across the bridge.
The morning after we arrived, we jumped on a trolley headed toward the waterfront to rent some bikes and begin our adventure. Leisurely riding through Fisherman’s Wharf, past the marina, and through Presidio Park, we laughed and talked loud enough to hear each other over the noise of the ocean, seagulls, and nearby traffic. We pedaled toward the Golden Gate Bridge, stopping here and there for a photo before eventually dismounting our bikes to walk them up the steep hill to the mouth of the bridge. Then, with butterflies floating around in our tummies, we mounted the bikes, entered the pedestrians’ path, and made our way across the famous landmark and over the San Francisco Bay. The day was beautiful, the views were perfect, and the three of us smiled with satisfaction as we took it all in.
After arriving at the other side and stopping for a few more pictures, we rode toward Sausalito. I was looking forward to the easy ride down that long slope into the quaint town.
About three minutes into the descent, I remember thinking that the bike was going too fast. And I remember thinking that I should probably brake just a bit to slow the bike down.
So I tapped on the brakes.
The bike stopped abruptly.
My body, on the other hand, did not.
I don’t remember flying through the air. I don’t remember hitting the pavement. I don’t remember feeling any pain. I simply remember thinking, Girl! Get yourself out of the middle of the road!
As I crawled on my hands and knees to the shoulder of the road, I realized that my daughter had jumped off her bike and was crying and running toward me. My brain felt as if it were ricocheting back and forth inside my skull.
I felt a bit of an ache on my right side and a twinge of pain on my left, but those were not enough to distract me from my goal of getting to Sausalito. I figured I just needed a second—a chance to get my act together—and then we could be on our merry way.
I thought I would be okay.
My daughter didn’t think so.
She asked me to look down at my shirt, and when I did, I realized it was covered with blood. I glanced at my left side to identify the source of the pain that was now radiating up my arm. My pinky finger was throbbing. It also seemed to be oddly shaped. I looked at my right arm and realized that my elbow was busted up.
My friend had called an ambulance, and when it arrived, one of the emergency medical personnel squatted in front of me, looking me over and asking me the types of questions you ask a girl who has just flown head-first off her bike.
“Are you okay?”
“Do you know your name?”
“Who’s the president?
“What year is it?”
I guess the way I looked to the EMT, those questions were necessary. But I only felt irritated by his questions and offer of assistance. He was getting in my way.
All I wanted to do was get back on my bike and on my way to Sausalito.
Achiever. Control freak. Doggedly determined to make things work.
I reasoned with myself, figuring I could tolerate my pain long enough to get back on that bike and make it to Sausalito. Then I would put my bike on the ferry, pedal back across the bay to San Fran, and get myself to a hospital.
Insane. Crazy. Muy estupido.
The EMT closed his eyes and leaned his head to one side while taking a deep breath, willing himself to patience with this stubborn woman he had found himself caring for.
“You could, ma’am, but I don’t recommend that. You are hurt, and I think you need to come with me so you can have your pain addressed.”
I didn’t want to admit that I needed help. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my left pinky finger was hurting terribly (because it was broken), my right elbow was pulsing with pain (because it was fractured), and my brain was still ricocheting back and forth in my skull (because I had hit my head on the pavement). And I didn’t want to confess that the sight of blood had totally unnerved me.
Never in a million years did I think I would take a trip designed for relaxation and pleasure only to find myself sitting on the side of the road injured.
All I’d wanted was another perfect day, another great experience, another adventure that lived up to my expectations.
Sometimes, though, our days don’t live up to our expectations.
To find my way out of the mess I’d found my way into, I only had one option: I had to acknowledge my predicament.
I had to own my story in order to fix my story.
It takes one brave chick to admit that her life is not quite shaping up to be the life she envisioned. It takes courage to pause and assess your disappointment, realize where you’ve been disenchanted, and identify the source of your distress.
So many of us press through the pain without paying adequate attention to our brokenness. We disregard the ache in our hearts, as if ignoring the injury will cause the blood to stop flowing. We convince ourselves that somehow we don’t need to deal with the distance between our expectations and our reality. We think that somehow, if we just keep going, the distance will simply close by itself.
It won’t.
You and I must play an active role in closing that gap.
And the first step in closing the gap is to admit that the gap exists.
Step One is the highly familiar statement used in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), an organization that helps people overcome an addiction to alcohol and to live sober. When someone shows up to an AA meeting and stands to speak, they begin by saying, “My name is ‘So and So,’ and I’m an alcoholic.” People all over the world know and recognize that this first step in a series of twelve requires the struggling person to admit that he or she has a problem. In owning their story, they move one step closer to fixing it.
It’s human nature to hide our shortcomings, disappointments, and mistakes. We don’t like to be wrong, admit defeat, or show weakness. We tend to avoid the truth of our vulnerability, of our lack of control, of the pain of our predicament. We don’t like others to know that we’ve messed up, that we don’t feel capable, or that sometimes life just hurts.
But without confession, true restoration and healing cannot begin. If you really want help, you need to be willing to tell the truth to get it.
When you choose to own your story, you are not choosing to wallow in your mistakes, your pain, or your disappointments. You are simply choosing to be honest with yourself so that you can begin healing and move forward.
Okay, so here goes.
Step one.
Hello. My name is Chrystal, and I am an alcoholic.
Without confession, true restoration and healing cannot begin.
Actually, that’s not true. That’s not my story.
But I am a girl who has struggled with insecurity, battled with promiscuity, experienced pregnancy outside of marriage, fought regularly with the #fatdemon, and wrestled with a sense of shame and insignificance because of it all.
You know.
Just to name a few things I’ve had to own.
Owning your story can be an uncomfortable first step, but in the words of Brene Brown, “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.”2 It might feel like you’re coming out of hiding and seeing your scars for the first time in the full light of day. But telling yourself the truth is not an admission of powerlessness. It is when your story is in full view that you have the greatest ability to see what healing work needs to be done.
Owning your story is an act of strength.
You might be wondering if self-honesty must come solely from the less than stellar parts of your life. It doesn’t have to. The key is full-out honesty in those areas where denial or half-truths prohibit you from moving forward. And often those areas are made up of less than stellar moments. This statement from Katherine Preston on the Psychology Today blog sums this idea up well: “There is no harm in speaking about the pieces of ourselves that we are proud of, and yet doing so does little more than inflate our own egos. The more powerful part of ‘owning’ our story is speaking about the pieces that make us feel embarrassed or ashamed. Bringing our greatest weaknesses out of the closet and into the spotlight.”3
Owning your story is an act of strength.
It doesn’t matter how you got where you are as much as it matters that you acknowledge that where you are is not where you want to be.
When I went careening over the handlebars, it could have been because I was careless and tapped on the brakes too hard. Maybe I shouldn’t have been moving that fast. It’s also possible that the bike shop was to blame for sending me out on a bike with brakes pulled too tight. (I should have tried to sue ’em.) Or maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault at all. Jacked-up stuff just happens sometimes.
It didn’t really matter how I ended up on the side of the road. I simply needed to admit that sitting there broken and bruised was not where I wanted to be. I only needed to willingly receive the help being offered.
It doesn’t really matter how I end up sidelined from the desired experience of my life. I simply need to admit that sitting there with a bleeding heart and a broken spirit is not where I want to stay and allow Someone who is offering aid to help me heal.
As a part of owning my story, I must also own that I’m a girl who has been raised in the church. I’m a preacher’s kid. I know the Bible, and I’ve had a personal relationship with God for most of my life.
I was raised in a home where faith formed the core of our beliefs, gave a framework for our family, and provided a grid through which we interpreted and viewed our world. My siblings and I were all raised to believe that we were designed with a master plan in mind and that, as long as we loved God wholeheartedly, we would be able to tap into those plans and have the lives that He had especially designed for us to lead.
My mother made sure that I knew this verse in particular: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jer. 29:11). I grew up memorizing passages of Scripture that taught me my life could be abundantly full and overflowing (John 10:10 AMP).
You can imagine my surprise when I finally decided to own my story and then felt the impact of how far my life had veered from the plumb line of my expectations. The vision I’d been given for my life didn’t match my actual life very much at all.
So I know what I’m talking about when I say that owning your story requires a bit of self-reckoning that isn’t always easy.
But it all begins with telling the truth, truth that God already knows but wants us to be honest about for the benefit of our own healing. “For He knows the secrets of the heart” (Ps. 44:21).
Truth is always the best starting point of any journey forward. Psalm 51:6 says, “But you want complete honesty, so teach me true wisdom” (CEV). Wisdom for living the rest of your life begins with being honest about the life you have lived so far.
It takes courage to admit that
• things aren’t working,
• parts of your life are disappointing,
• you’ve wasted time,
• you don’t quite love the skin you are in,
• maybe you’re a little bit unbalanced or even a little cray-cray.
(Don’t worry about that last one. We all are just a tad.)
I know what I’m talking about when I say that it takes Someone outside of ourselves to reset what’s broken, put what’s been fractured back together, and give rest and restoration to quiet our minds, calm our hearts, and bring peace to our souls.
What about your story?
Maybe you didn’t mean to end up on the other side of a broken relationship.
Maybe you’ve found yourself five, ten, or twenty years into a career that has gradually sucked the life out of you.
Maybe you’ve picked up a few extra pounds each year and, many years later, are waging a battle with your body that you just can’t seem to win.
Maybe you’ve suddenly collided with the awareness that your dreams have gone unmet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever find that man, have that baby, or finish that degree.
Maybe you felt your life was beautiful until the unexpected call from the doctor, the unforeseen financial hardship, or the unanticipated emotional or mental crisis.
If I could sit down next to you when you are feeling the aches and pains that so often accompany reality, I’d look at you and tell you the truth.
Is this your life? Yes. Yes, it is.
Are you going to be okay? Yes. Yes, you are.
And as you slowly come to realize that what’s bothering you needs more than just a bandaid, I’d encourage you to take the first step and own the narrative of your experience.
When you hurt, admit it.
When you feel pain, acknowledge it.
When you make mistakes, own up to them.
Your life does not have to be defined by the story you’ve lived thus far.
Be brave enough to believe you were made for more. Be bold enough to believe that healing can take place and that change is possible. And change is always possible. Even if your circumstances can’t change, your attitude toward them can.
Be brave enough to believe you were made for more.
Dare to trust that it’s God’s desire for you to live out a beautiful story designed with you in mind.
Choose to take Step One.
Choose to own your story.
Be honest.
Tell the truth.
The good, the bad, and the ugly. Whatever happened, you survived. You are still here.
Own your story.
The girl you want to be is depending on you.