Rewriting the Stories of Our Past
Can we heal by creating a new ending?
When I was a kid, I loved Choose Your Own Adventure books, where you could decide each major twist and turn, hoping you wouldn’t end up in a pit of snakes or swallowed by quicksand. That obsession has continued into adulthood, and I often reference the phrase in my writing and speeches. How cool is it that we get to choose our own adventure in real life? And how much more terrifying—because the results of our choices are real! What if we choose the wrong thing or go the wrong way? Are we stuck on that path forever?
I became particularly curious about this, not in the decisions I make now, but in decisions from my past. We all have memories that stick with us, for better or worse. Some may even haunt us. We obviously made choices at those times or reacted in ways we now wish were different. For years, some of these memories haunted me, replaying at the most unusual or inconvenient times. I never knew what to do with them—what happened had already happened. And there they sat, lodged in my psyche.
We Have Options
In February, I was fortunate to be invited as a panelist at Read OUT in Gulfport, Florida, a literary event for LGBTQ+ authors and books. There, I met Jeffrey Dale Lofton, author of Red Clay Suzie. I was drawn to his dapper attire and flair for storytelling. Fortunately for me, he was the braver of the two of us and came up to initiate conversation.
I learned that we were both memoirists but in very different ways. My book was a recollection of events and feelings from my past. His memoir was a fictional novel based on his life. I asked him why he made it fiction instead of just telling his story. Why not own it? His answer was eye-opening.
He shared that there were situations and relationships in his life he wished he’d handled differently. His story became fictitious because it allowed him to play out the “what if” scenarios—if conversations, interactions, and relationships had gone differently. He took his adult awareness and applied it to his childhood self, approaching those situations with a new perspective.
I didn’t realize that was something we could do. He changed the choices in his own Choose Your Own Adventure book.
Why Was This So Hard to Do?
My rational brain finds it funny that I didn’t realize we’re allowed to do whatever we want in fiction. I still find myself partially caged in by the rigidity of “shoulds” and “supposed-tos.” We clamor for authenticity, but does changing my story make it untrue? Does it even matter if I’m only telling the story to myself?
I felt like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone, running through my mind palace, realizing everyone was gone, and I could do whatever I wanted. This could be awesome—if I actually gave myself permission to do it.
Entering the Dream State
As life would have it, I am currently enrolled in an 18-week dream training course with Robert Moss. I act like I accidentally ended up here, like I tripped on my shoe, fell face-first into my laptop, and somehow hit just the right key to confirm my enrollment. I did sign up for this course, even though I had never heard of Robert Moss, and exploring dreams wasn’t even in the top 1,000 things on my to-do list.
I asked a friend how I could continue my spiritual growth and personal healing journey, and he recommended the course. It felt surprising, but not wrong. And every Thursday when I log in at 11:54 a.m. ET, I ask myself, “How did I end up here again?”
This week, we were invited on a guided dream journey for soul retrieval or soul recovery. Robert asked us to return to any memory we desired. For the next eight minutes, we listened to shamanic drumming to see where our minds would take us.
I was surprised to find myself sitting back in my first-grade desk—front and center in Mrs. D’Angelo’s classroom. I could see her warm smile and neatly combed short black hair. My younger self sat holding one of those old wooden rulers with the metal edge, playing it like a guitar.
I have no conscious recollection of doing this, or why, but I vividly remember my teacher laughing and pointing out my air-guitar act to the class. The other kids laughed too, and I remember shrinking inside myself and crying. Mrs. D’Angelo, surprised by my reaction, tried to console me while also refocusing the class.
What the Heck, Dream?
This was a dumb memory that has resurfaced in my adult life more times than seemed necessary. Every time it came up, I physically felt the embarrassment and shame in my body. During the dream, I teared up again, feeling a familiar ache in my abdomen. WTF, dream! Why are we here again?
Then my dream took a page from Jeffrey’s book. I heard Mrs. D’Angelo’s laugh again, but this time, it sounded joyful, not teasing. Maybe that had been her response all along. I could suddenly see myself through her eyes and feel the delight she experienced watching a little girl with a light-brown mullet jamming out on a ruler, happy in her own world. As an adult, I probably would’ve laughed too.
When her laugh took on a new tone, my response changed. Instead of hiding, I turned up the volume—School of Rock style. One leg up on my desk chair, I jammed away, watching colors and swirls of music fill the air. My classmates joined in, playing their own instruments. Soon, I was standing on Mrs. D’Angelo’s desk, conducting a symphony of rulers.
When the symphony ended, Mrs. D’Angelo escorted me to the multipurpose room, where the entire school waited. I took my ruler and conducted a school-wide symphony. I could see the music (a cool dabble into synesthesia that’s happened to me before) swirling out the windows and into the world. The feeling was pure joy.
When it was over, I returned to my classroom, took my seat, and we resumed the lesson. In my adult body, I no longer felt the weight or ache of that memory. The dream transmuted my shame into joy—it was my gift of creativity, and I had shared it with my community.
Lessons Learned
Part of me wants to Google what psychological dysfunction I might be feeding by rewriting personal narratives. And part of me says, *who cares?* This isn’t me trying to be like James Frey, author of A Million Little Pieces, who was called out by Oprah for exaggerating and fabricating parts of his story.
This is me making peace with my past—revisiting what haunts me and gifting myself permission to see it through new eyes. There’s no rule that says we must be shackled to our past and drag it with us for eternity. So today, I’m giving myself the keys to my own mental handcuffs and allowing myself to reframe the stories that no longer serve me.
And I’ll also make a note to figure out how to write a Choose Your Own Adventure novel for adults. We often have more options than we realize!
Perfect! What many of us are being called to do for our healing...never too late for I have just achieved age 71!🧡