He was late. Again.
Not so late that it made a big difference.
To his credit, he texted to say he was behind.
Still, it bothered me.
The night before, I’d predicted he’d push our meeting back.
It was emerging as a pattern, one I had started to expect.
So I decided to speak up.
I resisted the urge to bring it up over text message. My body felt charged, so not a good topic for words alone.
When the time seemed right, I set the context: “There’s some feedback I’d like to share with you. Are you open to it right now?”
Consent and context lowered his defenses — plus who can resist a good open story loop like that?
“Sure,” he answered.
Then I did my best to stick with the inarguable facts:
“You were late today, which isn’t a huge deal to me. But I want you to know that last night, I had the thought, ‘He’s going to be late again.’ From over here, it’s starting to feel like a pattern I should count on.”
I asked: “Did you know you were showing up that way? Does that match how you think of yourself?”
He didn’t. It didn’t.
I continued: “My emotions aren’t that strong about it, but I did feel a little frustrated.”
Then I used one of the most powerful sentence starters in all communication: “The story I’m telling myself….”
In this case: “The story I’m telling myself about it is that you’re using lateness as a way to show me I’m not important.”
He took a deep breath, let that land.
Then he said, “That’s definitely not what’s happening over here. I’m sorry it felt that way. Thanks for telling me.”
We didn’t snap instantly back into ease—but we stayed with it.
We poked at the dynamic together, got curious about what was going on.
He didn’t get defensive. I stayed open to being wrong.
Soon, uncovered a valuable insight about how he was moving through the world.
And I got to feel seen—vulnerably, honestly—and cared for.
That’s the power of “The story I’m telling myself…”
I first heard that phrase through researcher and author Brené Brown, who helped popularize it.
It’s one of the simplest, most profound communication tools I know.
Because the truth is, we rarely see reality as it is.
We see it through the lens of our history, our nervous system, our unmet needs.
When we name that we’re in a story, we stop pretending it’s objective truth.
That opens space for the other person to stay in connection instead of getting defensive.
It’s an invitation. A reveal. Proof that your inner witness is online.
And in a charged moment, it can change everything.
Learning to say “The story I’m telling myself…” changed my relationships.
It helped me stop stewing in resentment or spiraling in self-doubt.
It gave me a way to share my vulnerable truth forward—without making anyone else wrong.
And more often than not, it opened the door to connection, not conflict.
But I didn’t come by this skill naturally.
I had to learn it. Practice it. Screw it up. Try again.
And I definitely didn’t learn it in school.
Most of us didn’t.
We weren’t taught how to navigate hard conversations.
How to speak clearly when our nervous system is lit up.
How to own our experience without assigning blame.
But these skills are essential if we want fulfilling, honest, connected lives.
If you’re ready to stop avoiding the hard conversations—and start showing up with clarity, confidence, and care—I’d love to support you.
Join me for my free workshop: The Art of Difficult Conversations.
🗓 Thursday, October 9
🕛 12–1 PM MT / 2–3 PM ET
📍 On Zoom
(There will be a recording—but come live if you can!)
You’ll walk away with practical, body-aware tools like:
- How to prepare before a hard conversation
- How to use “the story I’m telling myself” and other unarguable phrases
- How to speak truth in a way that builds trust
- And how to stay grounded and connected, even when it’s hard
And invite a friend while you’re at it. These are the skills that change lives.
Inarguably yours,
Rachel
