The Danger of a Single Story

I listened to a Ted Talk a few months ago entitled "The Danger of a Single Story."

(Watch it here.  It is worth each and every one of the 18 minutes it takes to hear Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's piece.  Go ahead and do it now.  I'll wait.)

The thoughts the author shares in her prosaic speech have been bumping around in my head ever since I heard it.  I can't possibly do it justice, but the basic gist is that if we only hear one part of a person's life, we risk critically misunderstanding that person as a whole.  It seems like an obvious thought, but you really need to listen to her words to understand why this Ted Talk is so great.  She is an author and speaks with dignity and depth.

I've been thinking about Adichie's thoughts as pertaining to social media.  Every time I post something on the internet, I am representing only a part of what has happened.  Since I'm the one posting, obviously I am the one choosing what parts of the event to represent.  The same is true for everyone speaking or writing about their lives.

Take, for instance, these pictures that I posted recently.

They tell the story of a beautiful summer day filled with nature, public parks, and adventure.

Throw a little backyard fun in there and it's a perfect day, right?

Well, I remember this particular day very well, and I think there is another story to tell.

My postpartum depression had been getting the better of me for a few days leading up to this day.  My heart had been dangling listlessly in the depths of my stomach.  I felt like I was peering through a closed window whenever I watched (or helped) my children play.  No matter my desperation to be fully present, my interactions with them felt stale.  The depression almost won its battle to convince me that it was my best friend, the only one who truly understands me, the only one I could turn to.  The black-breathed whisperings began to fill my ears.

I'd go to complete a task, pause somewhere along the way, and realize I had been staring at nothing for a few minutes without even realizing it.  I moved slowly while the world around me sped up.  I couldn't catch up.  I couldn't catch my real self.

So on this particular day, I woke up in the depths, yet again.  I squinted painfully at the bright sunlight streaming through our windows and I knew that I needed to do something drastically different to shock my body into responding the way I wanted it to.

I knew that I needed to change the story of that day.

So I put on my running shoes, told the kids we were going geocaching at the park, and we left the house.

We felt the sun on our skin, enjoyed geocaching through our unsuccesses, had frozen yogurt for lunch--an extravagance the kids are not used to.  We played on the playground.  We walked by the ponds.

Through it all the kids remained vibrant,

energetic,

and happy.

So very happy.

And it worked.  I felt better and the kids had an extra-great day.  But if you had seen the pictures and only read the captions, you'd think that was all there was to this day.  Truthfully, as you can see, there was much more to it (as there usually is).

What was the story my kids would tell about this day?  One of all the fun I've described above, I'm guessing.  Is their story the one that matters most?  I don't know that stories can truly be ranked in that way.  But their story matters most to me.  Their stories (or the parts of their stories I understand) are the ones I am most interested in telling on this blog.  But don't my stories also belong to them?

My life--their lives--are not a single story, and I can effect change on the stories I am unsatisfied with despite sometimes feeling humanly helpless to do so.

And although I should more often buck the social media trend and represent more than a single story when I tell about my life, I will continue to write mostly for and about my kids who may one day need to hear more stories about their childhood and our family.