“Are you kidding me?” I thought as she sat down at the head of the table. She was a peroxide blond wrapped tightly in a V-necked, bright red sweater that thoroughly displayed her assets. In my opinion, she wasn’t the appropriate poster child for a discussion on spirituality and recovery.

Then she opened her mouth and told my story. She and I had made all the same mistakes—but she’d already learned from hers. 

There’s a methodology in the medical world called narrative medicine. Doctors learn to listen to what their patients have to say about their illness, paying attention to metaphors and plotline as if they were reading a story. That story, when integrated with the medical facts as presented by tests and observations, helps both the patient and the physician deal with the illness wholistically.

But when I hear the phrase “narrative medicine,” I don’t think about a technique taught in medical school. I think about that woman in her bright red sweater. Just as “plant medicine” assumes that plants have the capacity to restore and enhance health if we attend to what they teach us, this version of “narrative medicine” assumes that stories have the power to enhance and restore our souls if we will listen. This understanding is at the heart of many books, and underpins the movies and videos that move beyond simple entertainment. This understanding is central to the best kinds of story-telling, whether around the campfire or in recovery rooms or when we put the grandkids to bed.

We all have some big and heroic stories that have influenced our lives. For me, it’s the student in Tianamen Square, Ettie Hillesum, Thomas R. Kelly, Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, Bill W. My heart has been opened to these people through photos, movies, books, news stories and blogs. These are powerful medicine, bringing to life people who gave themselves to a vision of love and justice. 

But most of the narratives that heal us don’t involve such dramatic circumstances. What our quotidian stories have in common with those big narratives, however, is vulnerability: the narrator’s willingness to offer their experience truthfully even when the story isn’t flattering. The tale you don’t want to tell is often the tale that can save someone else: the one where you are revealed.

Narrative offered as medicine, by its very nature, will invite a listener to see themselves more clearly, more generously. I remember the inner spaciousness I received when a friend spoke honestly about being an addict. I think about the relief I felt when my boss shared how hard it was for her to be a good step-parent. These vulnerable offerings, these bits of “narrative medicine,” made my own life less lonely, less terrifying. “If he can live with that, if she can live through that,” I thought, “maybe I can too.” 

Almost forty years ago, that woman in the tight red sweater started me on a healing path. Though I have never known her name, I have always remembered her—and her story—with gratitude.