Change your story; Change your life!

It’s that time again, when the year is fast coming to a close. Hopefully, the season is reminding you to embrace and cultivate stillness so we can prioritize presence and do the things we love with the people we love. My daughter recently reminded me that it is our ability to cultivate stillness that allows us to bring our full presence into every situation. This is what makes life sacred.

December is a time for reflection. As busy as life is, with all of its myriad distractions, we can start to create the conditions for stillness so we can see clearly moving into the new year. The easiest way to begin this process is to subtract. We show up with greater presence through simplicity. Less distracted and fragmented, the noise dissipates, and our vision sharpens.

January is a time for projection. It’s arbitrary in a sense, but the first day of the first month in a new year holds power and potential. Around this time, I begin to contemplate and craft a word that will guide my year. This year, I have chosen “Story.” It’s apropos considering I am formally venturing into the world of writing. But how can a simple word guide? A word is a reminder. Imbued with meaning, it can reinforce our values, beliefs, and behaviors. Like our values, they’re only as impactful as they are practiced. The word becomes an opportunity to freely express our choices.

Our stories, once integrated, form the filters through which we interpret life. These filters are subjective, informed by our past experiences and current perspectives. They are often shaped by our conditioned beliefs and behaviors. And what is one of the most powerful forces influencing these beliefs and behaviors? Pain — physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual. Oftentimes, this pain is developmental, rooted in our childhood when we lack the life experience or context to discern what is our responsibility and what belongs to others. Fortunately, there is a stronger force. An ultimate power…love.

“A word is a reminder. Imbued with meaning, it can reinforce our values, beliefs, and behaviors. Like our values, they’re only as impactful as they are practiced. The word becomes an opportunity to freely express our choices.”

Stories say much about us, offering texture, character, and context to our lives. Our stories differentiate us but also bridge us together through universal patterns that repeat themselves. They can make us think, cry, laugh, and inspire us to stretch the realms of possibility. They hold the power to separate or unite. Experience gives life to words that might otherwise feel meaningless. It's only when we connect to the words that they ignite our magic.

Love and pain form the bedrock of our most impactful stories. It’s only through remembering our connection to universal, unconditional love (call it Spirit, God, Source — whatever feels comfortable) that we can transform painful stories into integrated wisdom, shaping our purpose and meaning. We all have stories, and sometimes, how rigidly we attach to them determines our ability to hurt or heal.

What are the stories you’re telling yourself?
Which of these stories empower you?
Which of these stories disempower you?
Are there any stories you need to let go of?

Psychedelic medicine offers us a chance to reflect on these stories and reframe them. The victim wears their stories, making them a part of their identity. These stories are concrete, absolute, and confirm their powerlessness. The creator alchemizes their stories into purpose and meaning, extracting potential value and knowledge. Psychedelics help soften the rigidity around our stories, enabling us to transition from victim to creator.

If you’re looking to rewrite or reframe your stories, let us know. If you’re looking to explore and express your stories, naming them while being held and witnessed is the first act of healing. Healing is vulnerable work. If it feels easy at first, you’re probably not doing it right. As In-Q reminds us, “Change your story, change your life.”

As “Story” will guide my year, two priorities remain constant. One, my writing project. And two, helping reframe our clients’ stories with the support of psychedelic medicines. The first is a personal act, a devotional practice of sharing knowledge. The second is a gift for those in need. Allow us to share our gifts with you.

As promised, a simple reflection on my writing. This past month, I prioritized LinkedIn posts over my book. These smaller accomplishments helped me exercise my writing muscle and discipline, but they also positively distracted me from the hard work of the struggle. Traveling has deeply inspired my writing, and over the next few weeks, I will dive back into my writing schedule. Shame is not a motivator. I’ve leaned into grace, recognized my humanity, and recommitted to my writing practice.

"We all have stories, and sometimes, how rigidly we attach to them determines our ability to hurt or heal."

Below is a small snippet from my recent writing:

Over six years, it is strange to only have three memories of my family together. It isn’t coincidental. The reality is that my parents were having problems in their marriage well before I turned six. Their separateness was a reality, their anger and sadness palpable, their discontent an intangible force that shaped our lives. Make-believe cannot replace real life, real emotion, or real suffering. They missed opportunities to share with us the difficulties of life and the courageous steps necessary to walk through them. To show us how to break and put ourselves back together. Instead, they hid behind closed doors, shielding us from the discomfort of the unraveling of their lives, and ours, together. And then one day, it was done. They wanted to do the right thing, and in the long run, it was their best choice — a chance for them to be the best versions of themselves. But great intentions do not absolve them of the consequences of their choices. The poison and pain had already seeped into our foundation, altering what would germinate. This was the unintended legacy of their divorce.

Once our parents separated, we now had two homes. Some things improved, and others worsened. Each parent was now an island unto themselves, no longer able to rely on the other for support to compensate for their weaknesses, vulnerabilities, or patterns. No longer there to play to each other’s strengths. No longer there to fill the empty space or empty house when we were left alone so they could make ends meet. Every week, we learned and unlearned how to be kids with each parent. We packed our things into little bags and dragged them back and forth. These are referred to as ‘transitional objects,’ but they felt more like lifelines to familiarity and comfort. No matter how big of a bag I was given or chose, I could never fit enough things to make the pain, fear, and uncertainty go away. My only real transitional object was my older brother, Damian. He was my North Star, my hero, and my best friend.

I hope you enjoyed it. May you have a beautiful holiday, celebrating whatever you believe in, surrounded by the people you love, doing the things you love. I'll see you next year.