I Almost Let an Old Version of Me Tell My Story

This week I read a story about myself.Halfway through, I realized I didn’t recognize the woman in it.The article was written after an interview about my reconstruction journey at Hoag Hospital, after not getting the results I had hoped for at another prestigious health center. I felt grateful they wanted to tell the story.So I sat down with coffee and began reading.She sounded broken.Wounded.Like someone life had simply happened to.And I remember pausing and thinking, that’s not quite how it felt.Because what I remember most is kindness.Great nurses.A hug when I walked into the room.A surgeon looking at me and saying, “I’m going to take care of this. I’m going to take care of you.”Care everywhere, actually.Nothing in the article was wrong.But something in it belonged to an older story my brain knows how to tell.Years ago, when I was a principal, I often felt unseen. I worked hard. I carried a lot. Somewhere along the way my mind learned a familiar shape for things.Endure.Push through.Handle it yourself.Apparently that voice took the interview call.I didn’t notice at the time.So I rewrote the article.Not to fix it.Just to come back to what felt true.Because life is rarely this or that.It’s this and that.I have known suffering.And I have been deeply cared for.Both live in me.But I still get to choose which one leads.Sometimes nothing changes except the story we decide to live inside. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lynnhardin.substack.com/subscribe