The Stories You Choose to Tell: Rut or River?
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.” Norman McLean
What are stories you tell yourself about where you are in life and work?
What stories do you tell others about your institution, your relationships, your role as an educator, your family, your core beliefs?
How would you describe the tone, the feelings, the content of the stories you tell most often?
Biologically, humans are wired for negativity. Our negativity bias stems from a time when we needed to survive in the wild. While we are no longer hunter-gatherers, we are still wired for fight or flight. When faced with danger, our instinct is to worry first and foremost about survival and to protect ourselves and our people. We remember disasters and bad news more easily than what went well. We hear criticism directed at us more than we remember compliments. We often engage in distorted thinking (either-or; discounting the positive, catastrophizing!, etc.) as a way to cope with conflicting challenges and decisions in our lives.
Rivers and Ruts
As educators and leaders, it’s critical to remember that stories (and especially the stories we choose to share) shape culture. Stories reaffirm our humanity and stories connect us to one another. Difficult moments can completely overshadow what could be opportunities for connection and purpose. Yet, with intentionality, there are ways to reframe in order to strengthen the stories you tell. Leadership coach Robert Hargrove developed the terms “rut stories” and “river stories” (and these terms have been shared even more broadly by Onward writer, Elena Aguilar). These two terms allow me to articulate the limits and possibilities of storytelling.
What are rut stories, exactly? They are not always negative but they are narrow, repetitive, and suppress change and possibilities. They limit our potential by blaming others, limiting options and often falling into the victim role. River stories, in contrast, help us to feel open, hopeful and nuanced. They celebrate the fullness of humanity instead of the smallness of our worst selves. They are not always happy stories or feel-good stories but they are authentic and promote growth. When I tell a river story, I am adding depth, flow and nuance to how I remember and tell the stories of my life. River stories provide an avenue for hope and possibilities. And, most importantly, a way through.
I have to admit that I love a good rut story now and again, particularly when I’ve had a bad day. I want confirmation that “my way” was the right way; that I somehow deserve to be irritated. Once I have wallowed a bit, I realize that my emotions do not define me and I move back to examining my rut stories for what they are and are not. It’s then that I have the courage and insight to reframe and retell a story to serve me more effectively.
Here’s a river story from the pandemic, now approaching the four year anniversary. I don’t need to tell you the rut stories from that time. We all have them.
I recall an absolutely stunning moment in mid-October 2020 when our Lower School students returned to campus. It was a beautiful fall day in the Bay Area and school was reopening–in person–for every single Lower School student. The Lower School principal–a superhero in her own right–was dogged in her belief that “we could do it.” Classrooms were ready to go from washing stations, spit tests and plexiglass to small pods of students, willing teachers and enough technology to make things run. So, on that beautiful morning, the faculty and administration lined the street outside of the school. Many of the littlest ones had never stepped foot on the campus. Car doors tentatively opened and big-eyed, masked five-to ten-year- olds emerged, bubbling over with anticipation and energy. Somehow, even the very young students managed to navigate an imposing campus, locate an unfamiliar (and rather sterile) classroom and begin the journey of learning. Parents drove away and trusted the school to take care of their children, even in the midst of a pre-vaccine pandemic.
There are other not-so-positive pieces of that day I could highlight. But what I chose to remember, what inspired me to move forward during that difficult time, was how we were our very best selves that day.
How might you craft a river story instead of a rut story?
Identify your “go to” rut stories and the vocabulary you use to tell the “same old” story.
“There’s a generational divide in my department.”
“The administration always does ________.”
“If I only had _______, I would be ________.”
“Parents these days are so aggressive and demanding.”
“Teenagers used to be more resilient.”
Reflect on why you tell these stories. Are there larger forces at play? Sharing your gripes with a colleague or blaming someone may feel good in the moment but what is your longer term goal? Do you need a reset or a change? Who or what is the problem?
Ask a friend or colleague to listen to you as you speak about your school, your team, your leadership journey. What’s your default story you are telling and what do they hear about you when they listen to your story?
Reflect on what you want to be known for. Is that coming through in the stories you tell?
Reframe and retell: How might you reframe your story to be more nuanced, hopeful, textured? What might this story you tell sound like as a river story? Who can you practice with to tell a more hopeful and nuanced story?
Mapping Your Journey
At L+D our mission is to build the capacity of leaders to be reflective change makers, optimistic futurists, and human-centered design thinkers. We often use a version of the origin story as an exercise to build connections with leadership teams. This exercise is one way to deepen each person’s ability to be a reflective change maker. Individuals choose five or six defining life or career moments that have shaped who they are today. After mapping out “those moments when,” individuals share their journeys with their colleagues.
I’ve watched people laugh, cry and empathize with colleagues in ways they have not previously done just by sharing and listening to a set of personal and professional moments that made them who they are today. It’s all about building empathy and connection–and urging each person to reflect on whether the story they tell is a river or a rut story. Are they holding on to a nostalgic story that might keep them back? Are there ways they might retell or reframe some of their journey stories to move them forward and even to take action? Ultimately, the more we consistently reflect and listen to ourselves and others, the more we know what story we want to tell.
So, go ahead, tell your river stories. It’s a process that allows you to direct your journey. It doesn’t need to be perfectly crafted. Your retelling can be messy. It’s the process that matters. Ross Gay, in his beautiful poem, “Sorrow is Not My Name” ends with a river story.
“But look; my niece is running through a field calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel and at the end of my block is a basketball court. I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.”
So, what is one river story you can tell today?
