The Nature of Reality
Welcome to Lesson 4, “Living in Narratives.” So far, we’ve explored how perception, attention, belief, and memory shape the way we experience reality. We’ve acknowledged that reality isn’t just a raw stream of data—it’s filtered, selected, and interpreted. But we haven’t yet explored the deeper structure behind all that interpretation.
And that structure is story.
Humans are narrative creatures. We don’t just observe the world—we organize it into meaning. And we don’t just organize it into abstract concepts—we craft stories.
About ourselves. About others. About the world. About how things work. About how they’re supposed to work.
In this lesson, we’ll look at how identity is formed through narrative. How we make sense of ourselves by telling a particular kind of story—whether we realize it or not. We’ll also examine the psychological function of meaning-making, and why human beings would rather be wrong than incoherent. And finally, we’ll explore what happens when those stories break down, and how we can begin to relate to them more consciously.
You Are a Story You Tell Yourself
Let’s begin with a bold but accurate statement:
You are not just a person. You are a story—a story your mind has been crafting since before you could speak.
This isn’t metaphor. This is how identity forms.
From early childhood, we begin to form a sense of self by connecting the dots of our experiences. We remember events, assign them meaning, and stitch them together into a coherent sequence. And over time, that sequence becomes a narrative—one with a central character, a plot, recurring themes, supporting characters, villains, hopes, regrets, and conclusions.
This process is called narrative identity—and it’s been well studied in psychology. Researchers like Dan McAdams have shown that our life stories are central to how we define ourselves. More than just personality traits or roles, our identity is the meaning we assign to our past.
For example:
“I’ve always been the responsible one.”
“No matter what I do, I’m never enough.”
“I survived what was meant to break me.”
“People always leave.”
These aren’t just beliefs. They’re themes. And they shape how we interpret new experiences. Just like a novelist writing a sequel, we expect the story to continue in a certain way. We resist edits that contradict the tone. And we look for evidence that affirms what we already believe to be true.
Meaning Over Accuracy
Here’s the key insight:
The mind prioritizes coherence over accuracy.
It’s more important to us that our story makes sense than that it reflects some perfect version of objective truth. Why? Because meaning-making is psychologically stabilizing.
If you’re walking through a difficult life event, the most distressing part is often not the event itself—it’s the sense of meaninglessness. Why did this happen? What does it say about me? What do I do now?
When people say they feel “lost,” they’re not talking about GPS coordinates. They’re talking about narrative rupture. The story they were living in no longer makes sense. And the absence of story creates psychological vertigo.
So the mind does what it must. It makes meaning. Even if that meaning is harsh. Even if it places blame where none belongs. Even if it reinforces patterns of shame or helplessness.
Because any meaning feels more stable than no meaning at all.
This is why people sometimes cling to limiting beliefs. Not because they like suffering, but because those beliefs preserve narrative coherence. And coherence is soothing.
So when we talk about reality, we have to ask:
Are we seeing the world clearly—or are we just preserving the story we already know?
The Problem of the Premature Story
Narratives are useful—but they can also be dangerous.
When we assign meaning too quickly, we create premature closure. We stop gathering data. We stop questioning assumptions. We stop noticing contradiction.
Let’s say someone grows up being neglected. As a child, they can’t process that pain abstractly. They can’t analyze their caregiver’s mental health or social limitations. So the child’s mind creates a story that fits the emotional pattern: “I must not be lovable.”
That story makes sense. It gives coherence to the experience. But if that story becomes identity, it can shape how they interpret all future relationships—even decades later.
This is how trauma becomes narrative.
And how narrative becomes reality.
It’s not just about what happened.
It’s about the story we were forced to tell ourselves in order to survive what happened.
This is why trauma recovery isn’t just about recounting events—it’s about reframing their meaning.
And that’s delicate work.
Because the brain is constantly reinforcing the existing storyline. Every time we revisit an old story, we strengthen the neural pathways that make it feel inevitable. It’s not just repetition. It’s reconfirmation.
And yet—narratives can be revised.
Narrative Flexibility: A Psychological Skill
The most mentally flexible people aren’t the ones who know the most facts.
They’re the ones who can hold multiple interpretations without losing coherence.
This is known as narrative flexibility.
It means you can tell your story in more than one way.
You can integrate contradiction without needing to resolve it prematurely.
You can revise your understanding of the past as new insight becomes available.
Let’s take an example.
Two people go through a difficult divorce.
One says, “I failed at marriage. I’m hard to love.”
The other says, “That relationship ended, but it taught me who I am and what I value.”
Same event. Different narrative. Different emotional reality.
And here’s the thing: neither person is lying.
They’re telling the version of the story that makes the most psychological sense to them.
The difference lies in their capacity to revise the meaning without erasing the truth.
That’s what narrative flexibility allows.
Not fantasy. Not denial. But re-meaning.
And the more flexible your narrative becomes, the more options you have for how to relate to the world.
Culture as Meta-Narrative
Now let’s zoom out.
We don’t craft our stories in a vacuum.
We do it within a cultural context—a meta-narrative that tells us what kinds of stories are valid, desirable, or shameful.
Culture says:
Be successful.
Be independent.
Be thin.
Be liked.
Be extraordinary.
Be productive.
Be in control.
And then, without always realizing it, we judge our lives by how well our story aligns with those expectations.
If your story is messy, ambiguous, nonlinear, or unresolved—it can feel like a failure. Not because it lacks value, but because it deviates from the cultural script.
So part of reclaiming our reality is challenging the meta-narratives we’ve inherited.
Who told you what your life was supposed to mean?
Who told you what your pain was supposed to teach you?
Who told you which parts of your story were allowed to be seen, and which had to be hidden?
These questions matter.
Because culture shapes not only how we live, but how we remember what we’ve lived.
The Risk of Unstorying
Of course, letting go of a story—even a painful one—can be terrifying.
Why?
Because stories are containers. They give structure. They give direction. They give us a reason to keep going.
To unstory ourselves—even temporarily—can feel like walking into freefall.
Who am I without this explanation?
What do I do if my narrative no longer holds?
This is why psychological transformation often involves a kind of death. Not physical death, but the death of identity. The death of certainty. The death of a self-concept that no longer fits.
And yet—out of that death, something new can be born.
Not a final answer, but a deeper relationship to truth.
Not a replacement narrative, but a capacity to live between stories without collapsing.
This is where awareness comes in.
Because awareness allows us to witness the story without being consumed by it.
And that witnessing is what opens the door to something profoundly liberating:
You are not your story.
You are the awareness in which that story is unfolding.
A Note on Healing
Before we close, let me say something gently but directly.
There are some stories we don’t choose.
There are wounds that shape us before we have words.
There are betrayals, losses, and traumas that carve themselves into our nervous system.
To acknowledge that we are narrative beings is not to say that everything is fiction.
It’s to say that healing isn’t about erasing what happened.
It’s about expanding the meaning—so that we are no longer defined only by what hurt us.
You are more than what you survived.
You are more than what you believed when you were too young to know better.
You are more than the story someone else wrote into your skin.
And part of this course—part of this work—is giving you the psychological tools to see that truth for yourself.
In Closing
So, what is reality?
At least in part, it’s the narrative we’re living in.
And like any story, it can be revised.
Not erased. Not rewritten into fantasy.
But reframed—with compassion, honesty, and awareness.
To do this is not easy.
But it’s possible.
And the result isn’t just a new story.
It’s a new relationship to truth itself.
So I’ll leave you with this:
Don’t ask if your story is perfect.
Ask if it’s alive.
Ask if it’s evolving.
Ask if it leaves room for you to grow.
That’s what makes a story worth living.