This week NPR presented a two-part piece on “Our Storied Lives.” The text of the story (part 1 and part 2), written by Jon Hamilton, engagingly juxtaposes a preview of an upcoming book by Antonio Damasio with the story of a storyteller trying to make it in Los Angeles after many delays in reaching for his dreams.
The Damasio book, Self Comes to Mind, Hamilton writes, is about “how our sense of story influences our lives.” Hamilton characterizes the views of Damasio, a behavioral neurologist at the University of California: “… although we may not be aware of it, each of us thinks of our life as if it were a story in the making. … [W]e use stories to gain a perspective on our own lives.”
The way Hamilton structured the piece inspired me to juxtapose my life/story with Damasio’s research about story. Not because I think my story is fascinating but because I think this kind of analysis is useful for anyone, especially anyone interested in how story influences our lives. Here are some of Damasio’s findings (in italics) and my responses.
… we frequently model our own life stories on a story we’ve seen on stage or at the movies.
I don’t think so in my case. My favorite movies are achingly romantic, and I definitely wanted romance in my life, but I don’t believe I modeled my life after any one fictional story. Possibly the biggest pop-culture influence of my youth was comic strips. Perhaps I did model my story a bit after the life of Brenda Starr, the beautiful reporter whose story was filled with romance, intrigue, and adventure. But she was a working gal, and more specifically, a writer. That’s what I wanted to be.
My parents’ stories, however, influenced me more than those of pop culture. I decided early on to be a writer, in large part because my father was a writer. But I had a parallel ambition: I was rather obsessed with being a mother. Also the idea of being pregnant. As a child, I voraciously and precociously read reams of material about pregnancy and parenting, writing the story in my head of what a wonderful mother I would be. In 1964 (I think), the Ladies Home Journal ran a story about the Fischer quintuplets of Aberdeen, SD. This was back before fertility drugs, so quints were very rare; in fact, the Fischers were the first American quints to survive. I cannot tell you how many times I read that article.

My mothering fantasies were fed by my perception that my mother was a perfect mom completely dedicated to mothering. It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I learned my mother was not living the story she wanted; one day, she loudly and emphatically exclaimed that she had never wanted children. She had played the role of devoted mother to the hilt because she considered it her job, and she always gave 100 percent to her jobs. But the story she really wanted probably involved horses and being outdoors in nature. The saddest part is that I turned out much the same way. I believed my story would be one of fulfilling and nurturing motherhood but was shocked to discover — as much as I adore my children and do not in any way regret having them — that I was much more fulfilled by the Brenda Starr side of my life than by the Fischer quints side.
Setbacks aren’t unique to humans, but … our response to them probably is. We see them as changing the plot line of the life story we thought we were writing, and we cope by coming up with a new narrative.
The biggest setback in my life, the one that shaped my story for many years, was discovering — at the last possible moment — that my father had used my college money to start a PR firm specializing in petroleum companies — during the energy crisis of the 1970s. Needless to say, that venture was doomed to failure. I had been accepted at three great colleges, including Boston University, my dream school. But my dad told me there was no money to send me. I had grown up never having one shred of doubt that I would go to college. I had earned good grades so I would be accepted at a good school. My parents’ expectation for me was that I would go to college. If I had known they wouldn’t be able to finance my education, I would have approached going to college differently. And that’s what I ended up doing. I rewrote the narrative so that I alone was responsible for my education. I worked for a year after high school to save money, apply to cheaper state schools, and line up loans, grants, and scholarships. But my college self-sufficiency plan derailed after just over a year at a state university. I dropped out for reasons I didn’t understand then, but that I now recognize as depression. I’m sure my money struggles played a role, but they were not the entire cause. And I had to rewrite my story again. During the next 18 years, I worked my way up through a series of retail and clerical jobs, always looking for a chance to go back to school. I made a couple of false starts but managed to sabotage myself. I finally finished my undergrad degree at age 39. My setback story is not unlike that of Shaun Parker, the protagonist of Hamilton’s story on NPR. He, too, postponed his goal for nearly 20 years. Both of our stories turned out the way we hoped. But I know I can’t help wondering whether my story would have contained more success and prosperity if I had finished college at a more traditional age.
Humans never stop looking ahead to something better. … Because we know our own life is a story, we are able to look ahead to the part we haven’t lived yet and start writing those chapters.
Today, my next-chapter story is influenced by my mother, but in the opposite way from the way it shaped the story of my younger years. Hers is the story I don’t want. I love my mother dearly, but I do not want to be the lonely, bitter, pessimistic bigot she is. She has given to everyone else at the expense of living her own story. As selfish as I sometimes feel, I can’t be like that.
I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. Life is very, very good. But, yes, I still have chapters to write, including literal ones. I have at least a couple more books in me, including a novel. I would love my story to include teaching again. I want to pursue creative avenues like crafts projects. And perhaps play a small role in guiding my children to fulfilling stories for their lives.
Humans have a unique awareness that our lives are stories that begin when we’re born and end when we die. And because we know we’re going to die, … we are not satisfied with merely surviving day to day. We want our personal story to mean something.
I want to be remembered. Many aspects of my story have pointed to the meaning I have sought, this desire to be a memory. It’s why I’ve written books, though none (yet) timeless enough to be propel my memory for very long after my death. I have left many artifacts — writing and more — all over the Internet in the hope of leaving a bit of a legacy. I was a teacher. Some of my students from 15 years ago remember me, and I hope some will after I’m gone.
How has your life been influenced by awareness that you are living your story?
Entry by Kathy Hansen. Learn more.





















