Do We Define Our Stories, or Do They Define Us?

This entry is part 20 of 41 in the series Journey Through Stoicism

It started on my early morning walk. The air was already a little “heavy,” but the streets were quiet as usual that early. I’d just started an episode of Hidden Brain. One I didn’t expect to think much about beyond the usual interesting facts. But as psychologist Jonathan Adler began to explain how our life stories shape our identity, I found myself paying more attention. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was hearing something familiar.

Later that morning, while mowing the lawn, I finished the episode. The engine hummed as Adler spoke about the power of storytelling in shaping not just how we remember our lives, but how we live them going forward. By the time I shut off the mower, I was struck by a clear realization: modern psychology had just explained something I had already come to believe through the practice of Stoicism.

A modern idea that echoes ancient practice

The episode was called “Change Your Story, Change Your Life.” Adler described what psychologists call “narrative identity.” This is the idea that we don’t just collect memories or facts. We build meaning by organizing those facts into stories.

And not all stories are the same. Adler and his colleague Dan McAdams have found that the way we interpret life events matters deeply. Some people tell what psychologists call “redemption stories.” These are the ones where a person goes through hardship but ends up in a better place because of it. Others tell “contamination stories,” where something good happens but gets spoiled, and that negative ending casts a shadow forward.¹

Adler’s team found something surprising. People who told redemption stories tended to experience more hope, agency, and long-term well-being. Contamination stories often went the other direction. Even more interesting, it was the change in story that came first. Before someone’s outlook improved, before therapy started to work, their story changed.² What really caught my attention was how much this mirrored what I’ve been learning about the Stoic ideal.

The Stoic connection

The Stoics believed we do not control what happens in the world, but we do control how we understand it. “It’s not events that disturb us,” said Epictetus, “but our judgment about them.” Our inner framing is what matters most.

That judgment is our first opportunity to move toward peace, or our first step toward suffering.

Adler’s research supports that. His team tracked narrative changes among psychotherapy patients and found that redemptive shifts in storytelling came before improvements in mental health.³ That’s the same movement the Stoics called us to make through practices like evening reflection.

Marcus Aurelius wrote his Meditations as a kind of self-examination. He wasn’t chronicling events. He was interpreting them. What did I do well? Where did I fall short? What might I do better tomorrow? Seneca gave similar advice. Epictetus encouraged us to ask three things each night: What did I do wrong? What did I do right? What could I do differently next time?

These aren’t abstract rituals. They are exercises in shaping one’s narrative.

A personal realization

That’s when it clicked. I’ve been doing this already.

I’ve kept a journal for years, on and off. But more recently, especially during a challenging transition, I got a “guided” journal, and am using it more intentionally. I lost a role I cared deeply about. I was at retirement age, and it would have been easy to see the moment as an ending. I could have told myself, “It’s over. What I built is behind me.” But I haven’t.

Instead, I started writing more and differently. I began to see the event not as a fall from purpose, but as a call to reorient. That slight shift in language, in how I told the story to myself, mattered. It opened up new ways to contribute. It reminded me that I was still becoming who I am, even in my sixties.

According to Adler, that shift toward agency, coherence, and meaning is exactly what supports long-term well-being.⁴ The story didn’t change what happened. It changed what happened next.

Why this matters

It’s one thing to say we should reframe experiences. But it’s another thing entirely to see that thoughtful storytelling has real consequences for how we live. The Stoics knew this. They saw the role of inner dialogue in shaping character. They weren’t promising a painless life. They were reminding us that dignity and direction are still possible even when the external world feels uncertain.

Donald Robertson, a modern Stoic and psychotherapist, has written extensively about the overlap between ancient Stoic techniques and modern therapies like CBT. He notes that both focus on changing perception, examining core beliefs, and practicing daily reflection.⁵ Ellis and Beck, the founders of CBT, both cited Epictetus as a major influence.⁶ The line is direct. What the Stoics called “assent,” the act of accepting or rejecting a judgment, is echoed in what psychologists now call “cognitive reframing.” The language is different. The work is nearly identical.

When the story doesn’t resolve

Still, Adler offers an important caution. In the U.S., especially, we’re deeply attached to the idea of personal redemption. There’s pressure to find a silver lining in every setback, a growth lesson in every grief. That’s not always possible.

Some losses don’t lead to better things. Some pain doesn’t produce a hidden gift. Adler acknowledges this and warns against forcing a redemptive spin just because our culture expects it.⁷

The Stoics would agree. They didn’t promise neat arcs or tidy endings. They didn’t say that every misfortune has a cosmic purpose. They said only this: you can meet hardship with integrity. You can tell the truth about what hurts. And even when the story cannot be fixed, you can live it with courage.

Sometimes, meaning doesn’t come easily. But meaning is not the only thing worth holding onto. Sometimes clarity, steadiness, or simply survival is enough.

We are not just characters. We are authors.

What I heard that morning, over the noise of the lawn mower (thank goodness for noise-canceling headphones) and the rhythm of that walk, was confirmation. The reflective habits I’d built during difficult seasons, the questions I asked at night, and the way I reimagined hard chapters not only helped me hold on to something solid. They also made room for hope.

Narrative psychology has a name for this. The Stoics had one too. They called it philosophy. Both traditions tell us we are not passive observers of our lives. We are participants. We are not just acted upon. We act. And one of our most significant actions is the story we choose to tell.

That morning, I started a walk not expecting anything special. But I came home with something valuable. Psychology gave language to what Stoicism had already offered. And the two together affirmed something I already suspected:

1. McAdams, Dan P., and Jonathan M. Adler. “Autobiographical Narratives and the Life Story.” The Oxford Handbook of Personality and Social Psychology, 2012. ↩

2. Adler, Jonathan M. “Living into the story: Agency and coherence in a longitudinal study of narrative identity development and mental health over the course of psychotherapy.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 2012. ↩

3. Ibid. ↩

4. McLean, Kate C., and Moin Syed. “The field of narrative identity.” Journal of Personality, 2015. ↩

5. Robertson, Donald. Stoicism and the Art of Happiness, 2013. ↩

6. Ibid. See also Ellis, Albert. “Psychotherapy and the value of a human being.” Journal of Individual Psychology, 1962. ↩

7. Adler, Jonathan M., and Poulin, Michael J. “The Press for Redemption: The Influence of Culture on the Structure of Life Narratives.” Memory, 2009. ↩