The Stories We Tell Ourselves: From Insecurity to Purpose
- Jennifer McNeil
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
"But what I choose to leave behind are the experiences that no longer bring meaning to my life. Not every memory am I meant to carry . Only the ones that make me wiser, more resilient the ones that help me rewrite my story."
Excerpt from Poem: Social Identity, Jennifer McNeil 2025
Growing up, I was the bigger-built girl in the family. It was always commented on, and those comments stayed with me. Even when they were made in jest, they dented my confidence. I always felt compared, measured, and somehow not quite right. That insecurity didn’t stay in one place. It filtered into other areas of my life.
I built two businesses before this one. On the surface, that looks like success. Inside, part of me was using those achievements to prove something: that I was worthy, unique, and had something valuable to offer.
The stories we create about ourselves, often based on other people’s projections, fears, or failures, can become powerful scripts. And when they run on repeat, we can’t help but internalise them.
Even this picture tells a story. I was incredibly proud of what we had achieved together, and of what I had achieved personally. There was so much to celebrate. Yet I stayed at the back. Not because I didn’t belong there. Not because I hadn’t earned my place. But because my insecurities had convinced me that I should make myself smaller. Even my smile told a story.
Looking at that photograph now, I can see the contradiction. I was proud, but I was hiding. I had achieved something significant, yet I was still allowing an old version of myself to dictate where I stood.
Today, I am in full flow. Give me an opportunity to take a photograph and I’m probably going to be in it. Not because I suddenly became someone who loves being photographed, but because I recognise how often I denied myself those moments in the past. I don't want to keep standing at the back of my own life. I want the photographs. The memories. The celebrations. The evidence that I was there. Because those moments matter too.
And perhaps that is another layer to the stories we create. Sometimes the story isn't just in the words we tell ourselves. It is in the spaces we occupy, the opportunities we step away from, the photographs we avoid and the moments we decide we don't deserve to be fully present in.
For years, I thought confidence would arrive before I allowed myself to be seen.
Now I understand that sometimes we have to start showing up before we feel completely confident. So yes, I'm taking the photograph now. Because I denied myself enough in the past. I'm not doing that anymore.
Don't get me wrong, the doubts are still there, but I have learned to interpret them differently and not let them decide how I move forward.
At 50, a series of life-changing experiences threw me back into a place of deep insecurity. I started to question my ability. I felt dispensable, and it was the worst feeling in the world. Once again, that old insecurity seeped into other parts of my life. Anxiety and panic attacks became part of my story.
I started listening to the quiet voice in my head, the one that whispered: Are you really starting over again at this age? That question was a challenge in itself.
This time, though, something shifted. Instead of pushing harder to prove my worth, I chose to return to my roots: my passion for supporting people through creativity. I leaned into storytelling, journaling, and the kind of creative wellbeing work that had always felt most true to me.
The funny thing is, this redirection has not only cemented what I want to do, it’s also given me a renewed sense of purpose. Through research, meeting new connections, and listening more deeply to my own journey, I’ve found a path that supports my own healing as much as it supports others.
Listening to others. Doubting ourselves. Editing the stories we tell about who we are and what we’re capable of. This is all part of the narrative we carry. But there is more depth to the stories we create.
A story is rarely just about what happened. It is also about the meaning we gave to what happened. The words spoken to us, the experiences we endured, the comparisons we made, the moments we felt rejected, overlooked or not good enough. Over time, those experiences can become woven into the way we see ourselves.
We can mistake someone else’s opinion for our identity. We can mistake a difficult chapter for the whole story. We can carry an old version of ourselves into a completely different season of our lives.
And sometimes, we don't even realise we are doing it. The stories we tell ourselves can influence the choices we make, the opportunities we accept, the relationships we tolerate and the risks we are willing to take. They can keep us playing small long after the person who planted that insecurity has forgotten they ever said anything.
Stories are not fixed. We can pause and examine where they came from. We can question whether they still serve us. We can separate what happened from what we decided it meant about us. Most importantly, we can begin to write with greater awareness.
I am not rewriting my past. Those experiences happened, and they are part of my story. What I am changing is the meaning I attach to them.
The bigger-built girl became a woman who understands the impact of words.
The woman who once felt she had to prove her worth became someone who now understands that worth does not need to be earned by what we have been told.
The woman who questioned whether she could start again at 50 is discovering that starting again can also mean starting from a deeper understanding of who you are.
Perhaps that is the real power of our stories. Not pretending the difficult chapters didn't happen, but recognising that they don't get to write the ending. Our stories hold our experiences, but they also hold possibility. And sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is pick up the pen again.
Perhaps that is why the work I do today feels so meaningful. CREATE grew from this understanding that the stories we carry can shape how we see ourselves, and that creating space to reflect can help us see what might be possible beyond them.
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