The story you tell shapes the business you build and the life you live.

When we think of branding, we mention the logo, the colours, and the website. But before any of that, there is a story where everything else is built upon. Have you ever thought about if you are telling the right story?

I noticed this recently with a family-owned bakery. They have fifty years of heritage, and everyone in the community grow up eating the bread from that shop. It was supposed to be a place full of memory and warmth, but when I walked through the door and I saw the modern interiors and minimalist graphic design — nothing told me anything about their story. Although the owner had no intention of erasing the heritage and the role they played in the community, it was just that they thought they were doing the right thing by “modernizing” their branding.

The misalignment between the story they wanted to tell and the story they were telling was why they were losing customers. It breaks trust and creates confusion.

Now imagine this for that bakery: Old photos of the founders on the wall. The origin story written somewhere catches people’s attention to read it. A table at the community fair. This is the alignment between who they are and what they show.

And I recently realized that telling the wrong story of who we are isn’t just a business problem; it’s also a human one.

In my own life for example: I tell myself I’m someone who loves dancing, and that it brings me great joy, that it’s part of who I am. These are all true. But I wasn’t going to any dance classes, and I didn’t tell people I love dancing. From the outside I didn’t look like someone who loved dancing at all. I would once awhile thought of dancing and remembered the joy it brought me, but then I just never went dancing.

When I stopped living that story out loud, eventually I stopped living it at all. The story I told others had more power over my life than the story I told myself.

Carl Rogers wrote that we live toward the self-concept we hold, but I’d add that the self-concept others reflect back to us shapes us just as influential.

When my inner story and my outer story were in conflict — I felt frustrated, confused and couldn’t find my purpose. I felt stuck.

What I saw in brands, I also saw in myself.

There are really only three places you can be:

1. You know who you are, and you’re telling the same story to others.

2. You know who you are, but what you’re showing the world a different story.

3. You don’t know who you are (yet), so you’re telling someone else’s story.

Now what can we do? It’s the same for a brand or a person. It’s about getting honest with ourselves to see and accept the gap, and having the discipline to live the right story consistently. As Carl Rogers said, “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”

For the bakery, that means saying no to the “modern” design trends, and yes to the community fair booth and proudly telling their founding history. For me, it meant going to the dance classes.

What story are you telling others about yourself?

And more importantly: is it the right story?

It’s hardly brain surgery

“What did the doctors say?”

Robert hesitated. The words had formed so easily in his mind during the car ride, but now, sitting across from Maureen at the kitchen table with her warm hands wrapped around a vintage coffee mug, they refused to come out.

“Nothing big,” he finally said, his voice casual, though his stomach did a 360 flip. “Just something near my left ear. A small growth, I guess. They’ll need to do a minor surgery to remove it.”

Maureen’s eyebrows knit together. “Inside your head?” She leaned forward. “So… brain surgery?”

“It’s hardly brain surgery,” Robert chuckled, trying to hide the urge to vomit. “I’ll be home the same day.”

“Oh, Robert…” Maureen’s face crumpled. She pressed her hands to her mouth.

Only then did Robert truly see her. She looked more fragile than he remembered. Thirty-five years together, and those wrinkles now seemed to hold every laugh, every late-night whisper, every shared sorrow.

Robert reached across the table, stroking her knuckles. “Let’s go to bed, my love,” he said softly, rising and circling the table to pull her into an embrace. His arm slid around her narrow shoulders. She felt so small, so breakable.

“It’s hardly brain surgery.” He kissed her forehead.

Hugging trees

We drove along Route 66, out of Kansas and all the way west. Philip stared straight at the road ahead, his hands relaxed at the bottom of the wheel.

I was thinking about our kids, Jade and Ethan. They both live in California now.

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“We came from nothing,” my dead mom’s voice always echoed in my head. I grew up without a television, so I had no idea how poor we were. When you have nothing to compare yourself with, I guess that’s the ticket to happiness.

Silence filled the car. Neither of us wanted to turn the radio on. We were used to the quiet—in twenty years of marriage, there had been a lot of it. And we were comfortable with that.

The scenery hadn’t changed much. The same types of trees had been singing the same note for an hour. Their arms stretched wide, hugging each other as if afraid one of them might fall.

The day I left for college, my school counselor came to pick me up at 7 a.m. None of my family were home. Maybe they weren’t there on purpose—I don’t remember. That was thirty years ago. My mom and dad died consecutively over the past ten years, and my two brothers still live in the same old house we grew up in. I haven't seen or talked to them since the funeral.

“You okay?” Philip asked. I jumped.

“Sorry, hon—deep in thought?” he said apologetically.

“Yeah, just thinking about my two old brothers.”

“Oh, Barb,” he said, placing his hand on my knee.

“You know there’s nothing you can do about it, right? You’ve tried your very best,” he said tenderly.

Indeed, I had tried my best. I had called, mailed letters, and even once drove up to Connecticut to try to see them. But they didn’t want to see me. We were right outside the house—they just pretended they weren’t home. I knew both of them were there because I saw Charlie smoking his pipe from the attic window right before we walked up.

“Maybe they hold a grudge against you for leaving them behind,” Philip had said to me as we gave up on the forever-unanswered door and started walking back to the car. I had tears in my eyes, but I held them in until we were inside.

I can see that.

I can see why they’d resent me for leaving—but I would’ve resented them if I hadn’t. Sometimes, we have to make selfish decisions, or we cannot live.

I leave nothing behind. As the years go by, I keep telling myself that. I’ve been slowly, slowly hardening my heart and letting things go. There’s nothing I can do, not anymore.

“You’ll never be fully detached, Pancake—” Philip told me once, when I was sobbing into his chest. “You have such a tender heart, you know.”

The trees were still passing by outside the window. I wanted to move forward, to get rid of the same old trees—only to realize that I am one of them. I’m the one afraid of falling, so I stretch my arms wide to hold on to the rest. And they hold me back, too—so I’ll never leave them behind.