The Power of Noticing Stories
We don't live reality, we live in the stories we tell about it.
By Amy Burford
This week was overwhelming before Monday even had momentum. The tension and stress were intense, and the day filled with back-to-back Zoom calls. But this week was not just “a tough week.” It was a reminder of how our bodies, our meaning-making, and our leadership all get tangled in the stories we tell.
At first, it felt like just a string of bad days. But when I slowed down, I realized there was a pattern:
The tension hit.
My body slipped into fight-or-flight as a defense to overwhelm.
Fight-or-flight led to meaning.
The meaning came from the story I was telling.
That’s where my work is. Not in managing symptoms, but in noticing the story that fuels them.
Noticing Stories at Work
Every group around the table has its own narrative:
IT’s story: “We can deliver the tech if we just start with what’s available now.”
Marketing’s story: “Once we have the capability and know how to use it, we execute.”
Leadership’s story: “Dates equal progress. Missing dates equals lack of control.”
My team’s story: “We see the gaps. We know the date isn’t realistic. But we’re caught in the middle.”
Each one makes sense on its own. But when they collide in the same room, the friction isn’t about facts — it’s about the meaning each story assigns to those facts.
The Story Beneath My Leadership
Here’s where it gets personal. I notice that under pressure, I lead like a mother — I go straight into protect mode for my team.
This week, when my body went into fight-or-flight, the meaning I gave it was: “I’m not good enough” because I didn’t feel heard from our perspective on the project.
I didn’t want my team to feel “not good enough” either — because I knew the facts. The facts said: this isn’t about them, and it isn’t their fault. Yet another layer of story formed: “I didn’t lead enough to get the story and the facts out, so we could find a realistic plan forward.”
This is where it gets messy for all of us as humans. Each person needs a story that says, “It’s not me. I’m doing my part.” And that’s exactly where collaboration breaks down — when everyone clings to a story that protects their identity instead of collectively grounding in the truth.
Why We Tell Stories
This is part of the human experience. We are meaning-making creatures. Our brains constantly weave narratives so life feels coherent and predictable. A story is simply our way of answering: “What does this mean?”
That’s why two people can live through the same event but walk away with completely different experiences. The facts may be the same, but the story makes the difference.
If the story is “I’m under attack,” then every email or deadline feels like proof.
If the story is “I’m capable and supported,” the exact same facts land completely differently.
Stories aren’t bad. They give shape to our world. But when we don’t notice them, they run the show.
Where the Power Lies
So this week, writing has given me a big dose of my own medicine (you teach what you most need to learn).
If I only manage the tension or the fight-or-flight, I’m just treating symptoms. The real shift happens when I pause and notice the story underneath.
For me, that meant slowing down enough to name it: “My story is that I’m not good enough.” And then separating fact from meaning:
Fact: The technology isn’t ready.
Fact: The date is 15 months away.
Fact: Dependencies are unresolved.
Fact: My team and I are doing everything we can right now to support all of these.
The truth is simpler than the story. And from there, leadership becomes clearer: “This isn’t about my worth, or my team’s worth. It’s about aligning on what’s real so we can make a plan forward.”
The Invitation (and Where I’m Going)
I don’t think the work is about eliminating stories. I think it’s about noticing them — naming them — and then choosing which ones we want to carry forward.
The “I’m not good enough, smart enough, lovable enough…” stories are part of our human wounds, and at their root, they’re usually just fear.
For me, the story I’m carrying into next week is: “Clarity is leadership.” My role isn’t to hold the line alone or protect my team from reality. It’s to ground us in the shared truths, separate story from fact, and help others see their facts in the solution.
That’s the story I want to lead from.
And maybe that’s the work for all of us: noticing where the story protects us, where it limits us, and where it quietly shapes the way we show up. Because it isn’t just personal. The divisions we see in the world — in politics, in workplaces, even in our families — are fueled by competing stories that each side holds as truth.
If we can start the practice of noticing in our own circles — with our teams, our families, ourselves — then we begin to shift the larger story too. We move from fear into love, from judgment into acceptance. We stop needing to prove we’re “enough” and start creating spaces where others feel they are enough too.
The world doesn’t change when we force the same story — it changes when we meet each other’s stories with love instead of fear.