The Stories We Tell

Of all the lessons we learn in life, of all of the challenges we overcome, I find that letting go of the stories we tell ourselves is often one of the most tricky things we do. Some of the stories we have told ourselves we just know are un-true. There are other stories that we find no longer serve us. And sometimes, life plops of box of cat photos and truth in our lap.

When I was 24 or 25 years old, I came to understand that I had carried a story my entire life that was completely false. That story contributed to my belief that a good mother dies for her children. Today, I know that story and belief are false, but the unraveling of it, the letting go, is something I find myself doing over and over again.

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My Grandmother often gave me old crap that I wanted nothing to do with, so when she gave me a box of my Mom's old things I was actually annoyed. I'm not an overly sentimental person, I don't like clutter, and I'd much rather throw away old things than keep them laying around. I was in my mid-twenties, living in an apartment with the man who would eventually become my husband, and was gifted, yet another, box of old crap.

So one night while I was home alone, I sat down on the floor and tucked my legs under me with this giant box of junk. I opened the lid and began sifting through the entire photo albums filled with cats and sunsets.

Yes, you read that right… an entire photo album full of cats. Who the cats belonged to, I have absolutely no idea. Why my Mother felt the need to take photos of cats, and save them, is absolutely beyond me.

However, among the cat photos and trinkets in the box, I found a journal my Mother had written.

I found a journal she'd written to me.

On the front page, a simple message:

To Kayla Joy: All my love to the most wonderful girl who truly fills my days with joy!

As I began read, the story that I'd carried for most of my life to that point, fell apart in my lap. The story I had created all on my own; the story that my Mother died because of me.

I can still hear myself repeating the narrative of how my Mom died. Someone would ask and I'd tell them: breast cancer. It was simple, and true. But sometimes, I'd go on to tell them that she found out she had cancer when she was pregnant with me and chose to hold off treatment as it would have terminated the pregnancy.

For my entire life up to that point I believed, wholeheartedly, that she died because of me.

I believed that if she wouldn't have waited to start treatment, she would have lived.

I believed I was the reason she died.

I believed she chose my life over hers.

I believed she sacrificed her life, so that I could have one.

And I believed that I better damn well make my life worthy of that sacrifice.

This was the story I believed.

It was there on the first page, reading the first journal entry, when I came to understand that this story was completely untrue.

What was true, according to her words, was that she found a lump in her breast shortly after she found out she was pregnant with me. A few months later, the doctors confirmed that it was cancer, and she underwent a mastectomy while she was pregnant with me.

The day after the mastectomy, she received the good news that the cancer had not spread to her lymph nodes. According to my Mother, everyone in the room were in tears of joy. She wrote, simply, "You were safe, Kayla!"

I was safe.

She was safe.

She did not wait to start treatment.

There was no ultimatum presented to her.

Yes, she had breast cancer.

Yes, ultimately, she lost her battle against cancer.

But my birth, and her death, were not undeniably linked.

She did not die, so I could live.

She did not die because of me.

That night, that belief that I'd carried for over 20 years, was shattered. It would seem to take me many more years to realize that I still held the belief that a good mother dies for her children and begin the undoing of that belief… but the story that she died because of me completely fell apart.

I can still picture exactly where I sat in that apartment as I read her words and sobbed. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, sobbing, I have no idea how long I sat there. It was gut-wrenching, and terrifying, and freeing.

If that story wasn't true, if how I'd defined my life up to that point was completely false… what was true? Who was I, if not the daughter whose mother died because of her? Who was I, if not someone who received the ultimate sacrifice?

Looking back, I recognize that moment as one of the first times I was stripped down to something I didn't recognize. Learning the truth about my birth and her death was one of the first times I was given the gift to re-write my story. Here I am 13+ years later, writing and re-writing the story of who I am over and over.

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Some of the stories we have told ourselves, we just come to know are un-true. Over time there are other stories that we understand just no longer serve us. And sometimes, life plops of box of cat photos and truth in our lap. Whatever the case, it's up to us to let that story go and make the choice to compose something new.

Over and over again, let go of the story and choose to write one that is truest for you.

In love and gratitude always.