Shadow Narratives

Stories affect us all.

We’re each part of a story, both individually and as members of the grander collective.

More profoundly, we are stories.

At many of my events, I’ve spoken extensively about something called “The Dichotomy of Love Story,” which is essentially a fancy way of saying that we expect our stories to follow a formula. In the case of love stories, Nicholas Sparks and other well-known authors have nurtured our formula fetish; the romance narratives of almost every mainstream book, movie, and television show follow a pre-ordained course. When we turn the first page or take our seat in the theater, we know what’s coming.

And we love it.

It’s predictable. It’s comforting. It’s satisfying. Which is why we pay to experience it time and again.

But here’s the thing – God doesn’t write stories the way Nicholas Sparks does.

Grief is the great iconoclast, the ultimate formula-breaker.

Because in our grief we are no longer reading (or living) the same story. The plot has veered off-course and left us stranded in a land of shadow narratives, which haunt us day and night. We’re not reading (or living) the same story as our friends and family, or even as we ourselves once did, because we are not focused on the story at all anymore. Instead, we become obsessed with all the stories that haven’t been written, and now, in the wake of our tragedy, the stories that never will be.

You see, shadow narratives have no form or shape; they do not exist. They’re negative space. They are the would-have-beens and should-have-beens. They are all the stories that our loss erased. Vast, open-ended tales of romance and adventure, forever vanquished before they ever began.

The death of a loved one is painful, but it’s not really what hurts.

What hurts is the loss of life.

And it’s there, in that horrible cauldron of loss, that shadow narratives wreak their havoc.

I struggle immensely with this aspect of grief. I am both nostalgic and creative, which makes me vulnerable to the shadow narratives swirling all around me. No matter what I’m doing, my eye is drawn to the negative space; my heart perseverates on what isn’t there, on all the dead-ends swirling in the cauldron.

Last week I wrote that all new memories are stained with old ones. As my grief ages, I become ever-more convinced of that truth. But in the same way, for the griever, every new narrative is haunted by a shadow. The negative space clouds the positive, making even the brightest moments seem dreary.

I encourage you this week to step out of the shadows and remember that Nicholas Sparks didn’t write your story, just as he didn’t write mine. If given a choice, I would certainly choose a different plot, as I’m sure you would as well. But the only story we have is the one we have, and we would do well to keep reading.

Keep living your story.

Shadows and all.

A fellow journeyer,

Bryan