The Stories You're Not Telling

Starry Sky by Van Gogh from Pixabay

"My stories are just stories. They aren't really that interesting."

I hear this from accomplished women all the time. CEOs who've navigated hostile boardrooms like diplomatic ninjas. Entrepreneurs who've built empires from kitchen tables, and somehow still managed to feed their families. Leaders who've shattered glass ceilings with such force they're still finding the shards in unexpected places.

Yet somehow, when it comes to their own narrative, they minimize. They deflect. They suddenly develop selective amnesia about being absolute badasses.

Here's what I know after two decades of working with accomplished women: You're not too close to your stories—you're too afraid of them. The good news is it's completely normal. And completely fixable.

The real reason you hesitate

It's not that you live too intimately with your memories. It's what those memories make you feel. The discomfort of revisiting moments when you weren't sure you'd survive—professionally or personally. The anger at systems that forced you to prove yourself again and again. The shame around decisions you'd make differently today.

Maybe you're afraid of reopening wounds you've worked years to heal. Or terrified of what happens when you shine a light into corners you've kept deliberately dark.

I get it. When you've spent decades being strategic about what you reveal and when, the idea of full transparency feels like showing up to a board meeting in your underwear. Maggie Smith, author of the memoir You Could Make This Place Beautiful, says her memoir journey felt like walking around naked. Now that's full transparency.

But here's what you're missing: Your reluctance is exactly why your story matters.

Beyond the stick figure version

Thanks to years of corporate, business, and cultural influence, our narratives are stick figures—linear, predictable, about as exciting as watching paint dry in a beige conference room. "I had an idea. I worked hard. I succeeded." Yawn. 

Think about it. Have we ever seen a starry night look that magical until Van Gogh showed it to us through his creative lens?

Your real story? That's high art. Complex, layered, with shadows that make the light more compelling. And way more interesting at cocktail parties.

When you moved across the country, maybe the world, with two kids and a dream, leaving behind everything familiar—that wasn't just a career transition. It was an act of faith that revealed something fundamental about your character.

When you fought for that promotion, they said you weren't "ready" for, then delivered results that silenced the doubters. That wasn't just professional advancement. It was a masterclass in self-advocacy that could inspire many women facing similar battles.

When you made the hard choice to fire your co-founder, your best friend, because the company's survival demanded it. That wasn't just a business decision. It was a lesson in leadership courage and tact that needs to be read and absorbed by all leaders. 

The ripple effect of your truth

Here's what happens when you tell your real story:

You give permission. Every woman who reads about your messy, imperfect, ultimately triumphant journey gets permission to embrace her own complexity. To stop apologizing for taking up space. To recognize that her struggles weren't character flaws, they were the forging process. Think of yourself as a very stylish permission slip.

You create connection. Vulnerability is magnetic. The executive who admits she cried in her car after brutal board meetings becomes infinitely more relatable than the one who only shares her victories. Connection builds influence faster than perfection ever will.

You shift the narrative. When you're honest about the systemic barriers you faced, you help women understand their struggles aren't personal failings. You're not just telling your story, you're rewriting the story of what navigating the path forward looks like.

The art of strategic vulnerability

This isn't about emotional exhibitionism or trauma dumping. It's about strategic vulnerability. Sharing your truth in service to yourself, to others, to the systems that need reform. 

The best memoirs don't just catalog what happened. They explore how what happened changed everything that came after. How that rejection led to resilience. How that betrayal taught discernment. How that failure became the foundation for unprecedented success. How your experiences changed and shaped you. 

Van Gogh's surroundings, his imagination, and his emotional and spiritual state at the time all contributed to his inspiration for Starry Night. He was in an asylum. Sound familiar? 

Your stories aren't interesting because they're perfect, and yawn, one-dimensional. They're riveting because they're human. Multi-dimensional. Real.

Your move

I work with women who've built remarkable careers, launched game-changing companies, and left indelible marks on their industries. Without exception, they initially minimize their stories. "Oh, that? That was nothing special." And without exception, once we begin excavating the truth, they're amazed by what we uncover. Spoiler alert: It's always spectacular.

Your story isn't just a story. It's a roadmap, a cautionary tale, an inspiration, and a gift to every woman, hell, every human who comes after you.

The question isn't whether your story is worth telling. It's whether you're ready to tell it with the depth, nuance, and courage it deserves.

What story are you not telling?