Stormy Weather

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom”

—Anais Nin

Life has been a little stormy in my world lately.  Not the kind of storm you would expect.  We, sadly, have not had a lot of rain or snow in Colorado, just a LOT of wind with high fire danger.  But if I expand the definition of storm to include life events and lifestyle disruption, it has been very stormy. 

There has been fear and joy with the birth of my grandson two months early.  My days now include visits to the NICU where I sit quietly with him perched on my chest and we simply breath together.  My son lost his soul dog a week later, which was a different level of fear and incalculable loss. 

In both cases, I felt my identity shift.  My children will always be my children.  But now they each have partners that they turn to for solace and their own children they watch over, protecting them from what life brings.  I am still a mother, now also a grandmother, but my role is more general support staff than sole provider.  What does that mean for me?  Where should I be putting my energy?  What IS my role?  What do I WANT it to be?

Storms happen regularly for all of us.  Most of the time, they feel threatening because they take us out of our comfort zone.  Depending on the situation, it can feel like our whole life will never be the same.  Which is in fact true.  Yet we rarely see a storm as opportunity. 

What if the storm is not the problem you are facing, but the moment you can CHOOSE to be the author of your next chapter?

Most of us don’t realize this, but the story we are living wasn’t originally written by us.  It was handed to us.  Not in some dramatic, intentional way.  But slowly. Quietly. Repeatedly.  Through the roles we were praised for.  The behaviors that kept the peace. The expectations we learned to meet without question. Be kind. Be good. Be responsible. Don’t be too much. Don’t be too emotional. Achieve. Hold it together. Make it work.

And because we were children, because belonging mattered more than truth, we said yes. We became who we needed to be. Over time, those adaptations stopped feeling like choices and started feeling like identity.

This is how psychology defines “identity foreclosure.”  When we commit to a version of ourselves before we have had the chance to explore who we really are.  But most of us don’t need the term to understand the feeling.  It’s the quiet sense that, “I’ve been living a life that works on paper…
but doesn’t quite feel like mine.”

The story works.  Until it doesn’t. Here is the thing about inherited stories, they often work. For a long time.  They can build careers. Families. Stability. Reputation. From the outside, everything looks solid.  But internally, something subtle begins to shift.  A restlessness.  A question. A feeling that something essential has been left behind.

And then, at some point, a storm arrives.

Not always all at once.  But unmistakably.  A relationship changes.  A role ends.  A loss cracks something open.  A truth you’ve been avoiding refuses to stay quiet.  And suddenly, the story that once made sense, doesn’t anymore.

The storm feels like a breakdown.  But it isn’t.  It is the beginning of awareness.

We see these moments as disruptions. As things to fix. Manage. Get through.  But what if the storm isn’t the problem?  What if it’s the first moment you step outside the story long enough to see it?  Before the storm, our internal narrative runs automatically.  After the storm, something new becomes possible.  Awareness.

You notice:

• Where did this belief come from?
• Why do I keep choosing this?
• Is this even true for me anymore?

The storm doesn’t destroy your life. It creates space between you and the identity you’ve been living. And in that space, you can write the next chapter.  In your voice.  With your words.  Creating a story that feels more authentic.  As if your character finally woke up and is taking charge of where the story is headed. 

Storms can make us feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  She is swept away from everything familiar, everything that defined her, and lands in a world where nothing makes sense.  Like most of us, she does what we’ve been taught to do.  Look for someone who has the answer. 

In Dorothy’s world, that would be the Wizard.  In ours, it is the next book, podcast, guru, therapist, etc.  Someone “out there” has the answer.  All we have to do is find them. 

But along the road, something unexpected happens.  She meets companions who believe they are missing something essential.  A brain.  A heart.  Courage.  And yet, throughout the story, her companions demonstrate those qualities again and again.  They weren’t missing anything.  They had just been told a story about themselves that wasn’t true.  Sound familiar?

The turning point in Oz isn’t the journey.  It’s the moment the curtain is pulled back. The Wizard, the authority, the answer, the one who was supposed to define everything, is revealed to be just a man.  A man who was also lost in Oz and wanted to go home, but did not know how.  An “expert” who was just as lost as Dorothy but had gotten comfortable in his own story and preferred staying there. Until the “storm” that was Dorothy and her friends showed up on his doorstep. 

We often ask, “If this is true, why don’t we change sooner?” Because the old story is familiar.  Because it worked—until it didn’t.  Because belonging once depended on it. But eventually, something shifts. The cost of staying the same becomes greater than the fear of change. And beneath the noise of all the old messages… a quieter voice becomes impossible to ignore. “This isn’t who I am.” Not louder. Not dramatic.  Just… true.

The real work is not to throw your story away.  It’s to deconstruct it with curiosity instead of judgment.  To ask ourselves:

• What parts of this are mine?
• What still feels true?
• What was I taught that I no longer need to carry?

And then, slowly… to begin again.  Not from scratch.  But from truth.

The storm is not the enemy.  Change is hard, but isn’t being stagnant in an identity that feels foreign harder?    We spend so much energy trying to avoid the storm.  But the storm is the thing that interrupts the script.  It’s the moment the unconscious becomes conscious.  It’s the moment you realize you were never just the character in the story.  You are the one who gets to write it.

Story isn’t about becoming someone different.  We can all follow a new script, memorize new lines, adopt a new character.  Story is about remembering.  Not remembering some past version of yourself, but something much deeper.  Who you were before you were told who you needed to be. 

What will your next chapter look like?  Who do you REALLY want to be?  The pen is in your hand.

Much love

Lisa

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Lisa Hamil is a founding member and host for The SOS Collective, an online international women’s recovery and support group.  However, this blog and any classes or coaching offered by Lisa Hamil LLC are separate from and not affiliated in any way with The SOS Collective.