There’s a story I used to tell myself. It went something like: "I have to keep it together. I have to be the steady one. The one who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter, doesn’t fail."

You might recognize some version of that script. Maybe yours has a different flavor: I have to win. I have to prove them wrong. I have to be perfect. I have to stay small to stay safe.

Whatever its content, the story runs deep. It shows up in the background of decisions, in the tightness in our shoulders before a meeting, in the quiet sacrifices we make so no one sees the cost.

These stories aren’t fiction. They’re meaning-making machines. They're how we organize our experience, protect our identity, and try to make sense of a complicated world. In psychology, this is called narrative identity: the internalized and evolving story of who we are, where we come from, and where we're going.

But here’s the thing: Most of us didn’t consciously choose these stories. We absorbed them. From family dynamics. From culture. From moments of fear or failure that told us, in no uncertain terms, what was required to be okay. And then we kept performing them, long after their original usefulness had expired.

Until something cracks.

A job ends. A relationship shifts. A body breaks down. Or we just get tired — bone tired — of hauling a version of ourselves around that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

That’s when the story becomes visible. And when it does, a new question appears:

What else could be true?

This is the beginning of vertical development — the process of not just growing skills, but growing the whole lens through which we see ourselves and the world. It's less like adding new chapters, and more like stepping back to realize the story itself can be rewritten.

We stop asking, How do I keep performing this role better? and start asking, Is this still the role I want to play?

That shift is subtle, but seismic.

I see it all the time in coaching. A leader comes in wrestling with a behavior they can’t seem to change. What we eventually uncover isn't a tactical problem — it's a story problem. They've been living inside a narrative that served them once, but now silently sabotages what they say they want.

When they start to see the story, they start to see new choices.

Sometimes the story softens. Sometimes it gets rewritten entirely. Sometimes they reclaim old parts of themselves they had exiled for the sake of success or belonging. And always, there's grief. But also a surprising lightness. As if the inner stage has been cleared, and a deeper, truer self can finally speak.

So a question might be: What story are you telling yourself right now?

Whose voice does it echo?

And what might become possible if you gave yourself permission to edit?

After all, you’re not just the character.

You’re the author.