Grateful For The Story

When we talk about gratitude and personal growth, there's a sense of embarrassment that lingers under the surface, because in many ways, those words have become almost clichéd. We think gratitude means having to be grateful for every aspect of everything, and we ignore the nuance that comes from being grateful for the story we survived, even when we aren't always grateful for every chapter. Too often, we oversimplify personal growth, boxing a valuable part of maturity into categories like ego or navel-gazing or even self-obsession.

What if we allowed ourselves to think of those things as the simple result of acknowledging how experiences shape who we are?

Last week, I had a conversation with someone on social media about the way people judge fiction as being less valuable, and aside from the natural instinct to defend fiction as an author, it made me think about the deeper reasons fiction means so much to me—and how stories and personal growth are connected.

For many, the value of fiction lies simply in the freedom of a story. It's the ability to experience different places, other worlds. It's the charm of magic, the power of a hero, the excitement of new romance. Maybe it's the curious exploration of possibility in science fiction, or the challenge of solving a mystery before the big reveal. And it's those things for me too, but it's also so much more.

I love how fiction helps us understand the human experience, regardless of category and sub-genre. In fantasy, we see courage born in the spirit of a character filled with self-doubt, we see egotistical villains humbled, and sometimes we even see quiet side characters step into the limelight and steal the show. In romance, we watch as broken hearts heal and disillusionment gives way to hope. In mysteries and thrillers, we observe the inner workings of twisted minds, collecting clues and gathering data.

But what about women's fiction, and why those stories matter in our lives? For me, it's all about joy.

The environment was new to me, though most of the people were not. A friend of mine hosted a party this weekend, opening the sanctuary of her home to our Bible study group for the first time, and those moments were beautiful because they gave us a new look into the hidden parts of a treasured member of our group. It was a vulnerable experience for her, and as I watched her home fill with people, there was a special kind of magic in the way her tension seemed to melt away.

There were several women most of our group didn't know, so the party started with quick introductions and a few simple ice-breakers. Questions like, "What's your favorite ice cream?" and "What do you do for a living?" and "What brings you joy?"

It's amazing, what you can learn about someone from a few simple questions. Ice cream became more than brands and flavors as the women around the table shared dietary sensitivities, food allergies, and family stories. The generalized topic of occupation became an invitation to mission statements, opening the door to deeper aspects of what matters to us as individuals. And joy? Of course there were the easy answers we could all relate to: our shared faith, our motherhood journeys, the resilience and self-discovery of lessons learned through life experiences. Not fiction at all, but it felt like a nod to the importance of storytelling.

So when my turn came and the eyes of the women at the table settled expectantly on me, I followed my friend's example and tip-toed over the edge of my comfort zone. You see, as much and as freely as I share my life online, there are certain parts of who I am that I don't often talk about in real life. Vulnerable things I keep tucked safely away—and in many ways, my writing is one of them.

Because in many ways, writing is the most intimate and vulnerable part of who I am.

"Well," I said. "I'm a novelist. I write women's fiction because I believe stories are deeper than imagination. I think they give us safe ways to explore who we've been, who we are, and who we want to become." I talked about having a traumatic past and what it meant to grow up without solid role models. I talked about how I found heroes and teachers, friends and family...all tucked neatly between the pages of books. And as the women around me nodded in quiet understanding, I thought about the importance of storytelling.

Some of my favorite books showed me what personal growth through adversity could look like, in times where I otherwise would've drowned in bitterness. Others taught me the skills I needed to maintain perspective and gratitude, no matter how big a mess I found myself in. Still others held my literary hand and patiently, page by page, walked me through the process of finding meaning in life's challenges.

And to be fair, I had to read with open eyes to see those things. Books like Five Feet Apart, The Fault in Our Stars, and Tuesdays with Morrie helped me look deeper at the space between life and death, exploring what it means to leave a legacy—and while I could simply have read and wept my way through those stories, I found them far more impactful when I let them touch my life more specifically. In the same way, other books helped me explore communication, forgiveness, healing, and self-compassion. Through those stories, I watched characters I loved in the early chapters become entirely different people before the last pages turned.

And while I have spent a great deal of money on stories through the course of my life, I believe I am far richer for having done it.

*****

Not every story is centered on finding gratitude in difficult times, but in many ways, mine has been. And to be honest, I wasn't always as focused on learning to appreciate the experiences that shape us as people. When I was younger, I didn't care about looking for silver linings, and I wasn't interested in smiling through suffering.

Actually, the angrier version of me probably would have found my present serenity insufferable. She might even have punched me in the mouth. Because she was still living the early chapters I can now look back and learn from, she couldn't see how difficult experiences contribute to personal growth—she was too busy growing. She wasn't "finding gratitude." She was mustering up whatever courage she could find, just to take the next step forward.

But she did it. She grew. And in that growing, she made me. And maybe, completely aside from everything else, that's why stories matter.

I bet present me will find future me just as insufferable, because I'm still growing too, still becoming whoever I will someday be. Still absorbing lessons from the stories I love, just as much as from the stories I live.

And I don't know what kind of story you're living right now. Maybe it's a thriller you're not sure you can handle. Maybe it's a mystery that keeps you up at night. Maybe it's a romance that makes your heart leap and your eyes sparkle. But whatever it is, I hope it's the kind that shows you how to...

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