Stories of My Own Making

When we first got married, whenever my husband told me he loved me, I’d almost always annoyingly ask, “Why?”

Sometimes he would try to come up with something funny, sometimes something serious, but most of the time his answer was, “Because I just do. Do I have to have a reason?”

He really hated that question.

And yet I still asked, partly because I really wanted to understand why.

I’ve always loved getting lost in a good story. Whether it was a book, song, or movie, I loved the idea of romance and love in general. I yearned for the day I would see it play out in my own real life.

As the teenage years hit, I started to notice boys didn't seem to see me the way they saw some of my friends. I wasn't the girl who always seemed to have someone interested in her or who got asked on many dates. By college, I had accumulated enough experiences, or lack of them, to feel pretty confident about what they meant.

Somewhere along the way, when real life didn't look much like the stories I'd imagined, I began writing one of my own: I'm not a girl boys like to date.

The evidence seemed pretty hard to ignore. And underneath that story, another one had begun to form: I'm just not that pretty.

Somehow I thought marriage would finally put that story to rest.

But it didn’t completely go away.

Here I was, married young at 22 to a man who was everything I wanted. We were happy and figuring things out as a married couple, and yet that old story still lurked in the corners of my mind, particularly on my worst days. I had evidence to the contrary. I was literally chosen by someone. And yet that thought had solidified in my subconscious over the years. It was hard to break.

I thought it was simply true.

What I told myself was that my husband had married me because of who I was, not because I was particularly attractive or pretty. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I also knew I wasn’t one of the “pretty girls.”

Somewhere along the way, I had stopped realizing it was a story.

I wish I could say recognizing that pattern in myself meant I stopped doing it. Instead, I eventually discovered that we don't just tell stories about ourselves.

We tell them about the people we love, too.

As a first-time mom, everything felt big to me. I wanted to get it all right. It was a little devastating to realize that motherhood was so much harder than I had anticipated. My son had his own mind and his own struggles. I thought the answer was to find solutions, to somehow fix the underlying problem.

I spent years with that mentality.

As my family grew, I started to realize that the way I saw my children affected my relationship with them. I began to stop looking at them as problems to be solved and instead as people to be loved and seen.

The more I stopped looking for what needed to be fixed, the more I began noticing what had been there all along.

Their strengths. Compassion. Determination. Humor.

The very struggles I had worried so much about were also shaping them in ways I hadn't been able to see while I was so focused on solving them.

And that made a difference. I stopped feeling so frustrated and helpless. I stopped seeing them as victims of their struggles and began seeing them as people capable of growing through them.

I've also had relationships where I spent years walking on eggshells. There were good moments and genuine love, but also misunderstanding, hurt feelings, and times when I found myself replaying conversations long after they were over. For a long time, it seemed obvious to me what needed to change: the other person.

With time, perspective, and a little more life experience, I began to see my own role in how things had sometimes played out. Instead of only asking what the other person needed to change, I began asking a much more uncomfortable question:

What part of this story is mine?

Not because I was responsible for everything. Not because the other person didn’t have things to work on. But because my part was the only part I had any control over. It was the only part I could actually change.

Years later, that relationship looks completely different. There is love, respect, and an understanding between us that I couldn't have imagined during some of those earlier years. Neither of us became a completely different person. But time, experience, forgiveness, perspective, and a willingness to look at my own part made room for something new.

It’s not that the stories we tell ourselves are never true. Sometimes they contain truth.

Your teenager really does sleep in every morning and is never on time. Your spouse did say something insensitive. Someone you love really hurt your feelings. You did get rejected by someone. Your child really is struggling.

But what happened and the story I tell about what happened are not always the same thing.

And once we live that story day in and day out, for weeks or years on end, we become entrenched in it. We find evidence everywhere to justify it. There's a strange sense of security in proving to ourselves that we were right all along.

They didn’t pick me. I am really bad at sports.

She complimented everyone but me. I’m not pretty.

He didn’t clean the kitchen like I asked. He never listens to me.

She is washing my dishes for me. She thinks I’m a bad housekeeper.

And then we start interacting with people through that lens.

That’s when we can pause and ask ourselves:

What happened, and what am I making it mean?

And:

What changes if I allow room for a different story?

Not a fake one. Not an overly positive one. Just a story that leaves breathing room for curiosity, growth, and possibility.

Maybe even the benefit of the doubt.

I've had to do some deep digging to recognize that the younger version of me was measuring beauty against an imaginary standard. It was one pieced together from books and songs and screens, then reinforced every time someone else was chosen and I wasn't.

It took years for me to recognize the flaw in the story.

My worth and beauty had never been determined by who noticed me, who asked me out, or who didn't.

I just couldn't see that at sixteen.

I also remind myself that I don't need to know why my husband loves me. It can be enough that he does.

I don't ask him why anymore.

After all these years, I have plenty of evidence.

The goal isn’t to stop telling ourselves stories.

It’s to notice which ones we’ve mistaken for truth.

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About the Author

Lacy Johnson is a certified life and health coach who helps parents and individuals navigate difficult family relationships with more peace, understanding, and connection. Her work is rooted in a simple belief: we may not be able to change the people we love, but we can change how we show up in our relationships, and sometimes that’s where change begins.

A longtime writer with a degree in Family and Human Development, Lacy is passionate about strengthening families, finding joy in ordinary life, and helping people recognize the patterns and stories that keep them stuck. She is currently working on her first collection of personal essays about finding joy amid the beautiful, messy, and sometimes difficult moments of life.

When she’s not coaching or writing, you’ll likely find her spending time with her family, working in her garden, cooking a new recipe, or getting lost in a good book.

Connect with Lacy:

Learn more about Lacy and her coaching atLacy Johnson Coaching, or follow her on Instagram@joyfulwhisperings.