yyjStoryteller

  Not all stories move us to tears — some make us laugh until we can’t breathe. This week, let’s celebrate the lighter side of storytelling: the laughter that connects us, the small absurdities that remind us how wonderfully human we all are. We remember what makes us laugh. Maybe that’s why laughter is memory’s best friend. It loosens the heart, softens the edges, and helps stories stick around long after the punchline has faded. A funny story is never just about the joke — it’s about recognition. It’s that shared moment when we see ourselves, our families, or our friends reflected in the foolishness of being human. Humour makes us feel less alone in our imperfections. I’ve noticed that in every family, there’s at least one story that always makes an appearance at gatherings. You know the one — someone starts with, “Remember when…?” and everyone’s already laughing before the tale even begins. Maybe it’s about a burnt turkey, a mix-up at a wedding, or a moment of well-intentio...

Dear friends, Every age faces its own kind of silence — the moments when truth gets softened, rewritten, or ignored altogether. Yet storytellers have always found ways to speak, even when it was risky to do so. This reflection is about those moments when telling your story becomes an act of resistance — not through anger, but through courage, honesty, and love for what is real. Not every story is told from the winner’s seat. For as long as humans have spoken, those in power have tried to shape the story that is remembered — and to silence the ones that are inconvenient. But truth has a way of finding its voice. Sometimes it comes as a shout, sometimes only as a whisper. Yet even a whisper, if passed from one heart to another, can outlast a shout. When the official story is false, telling your own becomes an act of courage. It might be as simple as standing up in a meeting and saying, “That’s not how I saw it.” Or as daring as writing down the story your grandmother told you, even ...

  When Grief Finds Its Voice “Stories are medicine.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estés “The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories.” — Mary Catherine Bateson A story told in grief is a step toward healing. Sometimes we tell stories not to explain, but to survive. When words finally take shape around our pain, the chaos within begins to find order. The act of telling—of giving shape to the unspeakable—can be a kind of alchemy, turning sorrow into something we can hold, examine, and perhaps even share. Grief isolates, but stories connect. When we share our stories of loss or hardship, the burden lightens—not because the sorrow disappears, but because someone else helps us carry it. In the listening, we are reminded that we are not alone. Storytelling, in its deepest form, is not about performance—it’s about presence. It’s a way of saying: I have been there too. I have felt the cold wind you feel now. And somehow, I have found my way forward. So today, I offer th...

    “Stories are medicine.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estés “The human species thinks in metaphors and learns through stories.” — Mary Catherine Bateson A story told in grief is a step toward healing. Sometimes we tell stories not to explain, but to survive. When words finally take shape around our pain, the chaos within begins to find order. The act of telling—of giving shape to the unspeakable—can be a kind of alchemy, turning sorrow into something we can hold, examine, and perhaps even share. Grief isolates, but stories connect. When we share our stories of loss or hardship, the burden lightens—not because the sorrow disappears, but because someone else helps us carry it. In the listening, we are reminded that we are not alone. Storytelling, in its deepest form, is not about performance—it’s about presence. It’s a way of saying: I have been there too. I have felt the cold wind you feel now. And somehow, I have found my way forward. So today, I offer this thought: Has a sto...