The Stories That Shape Us (And the Ones That Hurt Us)

By Rev. Tonya D. Jackson, M.Div.

Welcome to The Resting Place.

This is not just a blog; it is a sanctuary for stories. A sacred container for truth-telling, for grieving what was, and for gently stepping into what can be. This is where your story, however unfinished or fractured it may feel, is honored without condition.

I have long believed that our stories are sacred ground. Not because they are always beautiful. But because they are ours.

They carry the breath of survival, the ache of loss, the wonder of becoming. They tell the truth when our voices tremble. They speak our name when others try to rename us. And they hold the quiet strength of people who are still here.

But sometimes, too often, those stories are mishandled. Distorted. Used against us. Turned into tools by people who never earned the right to hold them.

And that is where the real ache begins.

The Stories That Shape Us

From birth, we are surrounded by stories. They live in the way people describe us. They speak through family history, cultural traditions, faith communities, and the quiet rules of belonging. Some stories are inherited. Others are constructed for us. Some are born from survival. Some we are still learning how to tell.

These stories live in us. They shape how we love, how we protect ourselves, and how we search for meaning in the chaos of life. And often, they fall into three deep wells:

Identity Stories

Identity stories tell us who we are, what we are worth, and where we fit, or don’t. These narratives are shaped early, often by what we are told by those in power: parents, pastors, teachers, culture, and institutions. They define what is seen as good, holy, acceptable, lovable. They can affirm our dignity, or they can cast a shadow over our entire being. When these stories are grounded in truth and love, they offer a foundation. When they are rooted in shame, silence, or violence, they become cages that confine who we are allowed to become.

Trauma Stories

Trauma stories form when something breaks. They are our attempt to make meaning out of what never should have happened. These stories often come in whispers: “Maybe it was my fault.” “Maybe if I was stronger, it wouldn’t have hurt so much.” Sometimes they are told through avoidance, things we refuse to remember because the remembering still burns. These stories are not weakness. They are sacred accounts of surviving what others cannot even name. They deserve to be heard without judgment, without erasure, and without being transformed into someone else’s lesson.

Hope Stories

Hope stories are not naive. They are not sugar-coated endings or empty affirmations. They are stories that emerge from the rubble, stories that dare to believe that the ending isn’t here yet. Hope stories point toward possibility. They ask what might still be possible if I give myself permission to heal, to tell the truth, to choose myself. They do not erase the past, they honor it, while refusing to let it be the whole story.

When Stories Turn Sour

There is a particular violence that happens when our story is taken by someone else, especially when that person uses it to justify their own wrongdoing.

You told them you were hurting. You confided in them the terror of what you endured. You named your trauma, your ache, your truth. And they used it to excuse their behavior. To spiritualize their harm. To place themselves in the center of a story that never belonged to them.

This is not just betrayal. It is the mishandling of the sacred. It is when the horror of your trauma is recast as character development for someone else's redemption arc.

It happens when:

• People tell your story without your permission, turning your pain into public content

• People use your suffering to justify how they treated you

• People insert themselves into your healing process as if they were the heroes

• People downplay the terror you felt because they want to feel better about what they did

These moments leave you reeling, questioning the truth you lived, and wondering if you will ever feel safe telling your story again. Let’s name what is happening clearly.

Stolen Narratives

A stolen narrative is when someone tells your story and speaks it as if it were theirs to tell.

It might be a family member who shares your trauma in casual conversation, stripping it of its sacredness. It might be a church that platforms your pain for its own image. It might be a friend who reshapes your vulnerability into gossip or spectacle. The result is the same: you become invisible in the telling of your own truth. The complexity, the emotion, the spirit of the story is erased. What remains is their version of your life, flattened, altered, and used to serve their need.

Repurposed Plots

Repurposed plots occur when people use your story not to honor you, but to inspire themselves or others (often without your consent).

“Look how far you’ve come. God had a plan all along.” “You should be grateful for the lesson.” But what if you are still bleeding? What if the lesson should never have happened?What if there is nothing to be grateful for, at least not yet? Repurposing your story too soon, or without your full voice, denies the process of healing. It silences your grief with premature celebration. It tells you to perform wholeness while your wounds are still open.

Villainous Rewrites

Villainous rewrites are perhaps the most insidious. They use theology, culture, or distorted morality to frame your pain as rebellion, your doubt as weakness, your survival as sin.

They sound like: “Just pray about it.God doesn’t give you more than you can handle." “It’s all part of His plan.”“Forgive and forget.” These phrases are dressed up in spirituality but are hollow at their core. They twist faith into a weapon, demanding silence in the name of holiness. They cast your grief as a lack of trust. They force you to smile while you suffocate.

These rewrites sever us from God, from community, and often from ourselves. They demand performance instead of presence. They offer comfort to the abuser, not the abused.

Reclaiming the Pen

So what now? What do we do when the story meant to hold us has become the very thing hurting us? We reclaim the pen. We take back what was taken. We begin again, with trembling hands and unwavering truth.

Listen Deeply

Start by telling the story to yourself. Not the edited version. The real one. The story where you were afraid. Where you did what you had to do to survive. Where you didn’t get to fight back, and that doesn’t make you weak. Speak it. Write it. Pray it. Cry it. You don’t need permission to tell your truth.

Name the Harm

Who distorted your story? Who demanded you stay silent for their comfort? What words were used to twist your reality? Naming the harm is holy work. It is how we make room for healing. It is how we protect the sacredness of our story going forward.

Re-author with Intention

You are not what happened to you. You are not the role someone forced you to play. You have the right to decide what this next chapter will be.

Choose to name yourself with tenderness. Choose community over isolation. Choose truth over performative healing. Choose becoming over being boxed in.

Seek Sacred Witness

Healing is never meant to be a solo act. We need people who can sit in the rubble with us. Who won’t flinch when we speak. Who won’t try to fix us but will simply say, “I believe you. I honor you. I am with you.” That is the kind of care we offer at A Time For You.

Why This Matters at A Time For You LLC

We do not rush your story here. We do not offer spiritual shortcuts. We do not turn your trauma into teaching points. We offer presence. We offer truth-telling. We offer room to breathe. Through spiritual care sessions, grief circles, and communal healing spaces, we hold space for the untangling and honoring of the stories you carry. We believe your truth is sacred. We believe your healing is holy. And we believe your voice matters.

Because you deserve a time for you. And you deserve to tell your story, your way.

A Prayer for the Journey

Holy Storyteller, You who wrote stars into the sky and breathed into our lungs, remind us that the stories we carry are sacred.

Give us the courage to reclaim the pen, to speak what was silenced, to honor what was twisted, and to begin again with grace.

May we tell the truth with trembling hands. May we find companions who will hold space. May we remember that our story does not end in trauma. It continues in power, in peace, in sacred reclamation.

Amen.

Reflection Prompt: What part of your story has been told through someone else’s voice? What would it feel like to speak it now, in your voice, in your way, for your healing?