The Dissolving Armor of an Iron Man

The story of where you came from lights the path ahead

“I don’t have a story,” he said.

Tommy Geary had just reached for the handiest argument on the shelf that most people use when they get an opportunity to share themselves. It’s a classic statement I’ve heard again and again from individuals I coach—a culturally sanctioned lie that none of us believe about each other, but most everyone applies to themselves.

Even from a few thousand miles away over Zoom I could see the disciplined frame of this man underneath his loose T-shirt and ball cap. Yet he now sat under an awning in his backyard arguing for the weakness of his personal narrative.

Tommy is a mindset, fitness, and lifestyle coach for men; he looks like Jason Statham without making you feel like your life is in danger. This was our third coaching call and Tommy had just shared a vision that he would one day inspire large groups of people as a speaker. His curious blue eyes were now exploring the idea of pursuing that speaking dream.

“So what’s my first step?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “You’ll need to know what your story is.”

That’s when he pulled out those five tidy words, “I don’t have a story,” that many of us use to keep ourselves safe when we have an opportunity to be seen. As though we haven’t lived through challenges, losses, heartbreaks, wins, braveries, and failures that would inspire a navy seal. But the heroism of our own lived humanity doesn’t register on our story scale.

When we say “I don’t have a story” what we really mean is “I don’t believe my story is worthy.”

“I didn’t climb Mount Everest, grow up in a Ghetto, or beat cancer,” Tommy went on. “What would I talk about?”

In our brief conversations so far I’d already learned that Tommy had played college football and completed multiple Spartan races, known to be some of the most grueling tests of athletic endurance, agility, balance, muscular and mental willpower in the world of competitive sports.

He had the courage to quit his high-paying corporate job to start his own business helping men to realize their capacity as leaders and become the kind of person they’d like their kids to be.

He had two adopted daughters, sacrificed his soul-bond with the Colorado open sky to find a community that worked for his family, and was now taking the time to speak with me, pursuing his purpose while juggling the care of one of his daughters who had come down with Covid, pink eye, and pneumonia simultaneously.

In our last conversation he had shared the painful recognition that his impossible internal standards were spilling over into his parenting and disconnecting him from his kids, undermining his own values and commitment as father.

Since the beginning of our conversations I’ve been thinking about all the men this guy could be helping and inspiring as a speaker and coach.

What he’s thinking is, “I don’t have a story.”

I encourage Tommy to think back five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago, “What have you been through in life, what patterns have shown up?”

Tommy is quiet for a minute, and then he says, “Well, I had a sister who died of SIDS when I was just two years old. That had an impact on me.”

If you’re paying attention you can always feel the descent of an origin story into a conversation. An origin story is the root of where we come from, a moment or experience in time that shapes who and what we become, and what we choose to serve in a fundamental way. An origin story has a scent and an energy that you can feel when it’s bearing down on you, like a distant summer storm on the way.

Tommy’s thundercloud was about to unleash.

He talked about being a toddler, sitting in the emergency room with his mother and father. They’d all followed the ambulance carrying his three-month-old sister to the hospital. Shortly after, a doctor came out to tell the family his sibling was dead.

Suddenly a two-year-old boy was saddled with the duty of filling an emotional void to make up for the loss of his sister. Grief lived in the background of his loving family circumstance and produced a young man who had to seal off his own sadness, sacrificing his right to fall apart on the way to authentic character and strength. He became a “mama’s boy,” desperate to hold his mother close for comfort and care, though perhaps just as focused on keeping his mother afloat in her grief—preserving his mom’s life raft with one hand while clinging to its safety with another.

Now a father of two adopted children himself, Tommy wants to help men reclaim their feelings, restore their emotional range and depth, so they can realize their peak potential—a battle he faces each day.

He’d just talked his way through “no story” to the root of an experience shared by millions of men on the planet.

By owning and sharing the truth of that story, he’ll be able to authentically connect with every father who’s wondered how he can hold a place for both the softness and solidity of what it means to be a husband and dad. Every man who’s trying to balance the expectations of his culture with the reality of his feelings and the needs of his family will see himself in Tommy’s story.

This is just the beginning of Tommy’s journey and I’m certain there’s much more of this thoughtful man’s narrative waiting to be discovered.

The point is, I have conversations almost every day with people who believe they’re not story worthy—who think their story isn’t dramatic enough, inspiring enough, compelling enough to share. Never once has that proved to be true.

None of us get to be a human and not have a story that is worth sharing, a story that is an essential part of the human experience we’re instinctually trying to make whole by witnessing each other in our expression of it. Other humans need your piece of the humanity puzzle.

“Really?” Tommy said. “This is worth sharing? Are you sure you’re not just blowing smoke?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

But the assurance Tommy is looking for can’t come from me. It’s going to come through the eyes, tears, and quiet nods of other men whose hearts will be restored as Tommy offers permission for them to feel by his own modeling; an invitation to share their grief; the courage to acknowledge their anger; the bravery to drop the tough guy act and admit that they want a better way to make sense of their frustration, and find a useful target for its power. The assurance Tommy wants is going to descend like a summer storm the moment another man walks up to him after a public talk and says the words, “You changed my life.”

“Ok,” he says. “What do I do next?”

“Start writing down your stories.”

The ball is in Tommy’s court. He has a chance to explore where he’s been so he can make some real choices about where he’s going from here, and then take a few lucky men with him.

Discovering our story and sharing it might be the most important thing we do as adults in the world. Declaring who we are is the foundation of what we have to offer. Looking back we illuminate the path ahead.

Discover Your Own Story

If you’d like help to see your life story through fresh eyes and reconnect to a personal narrative that fully honors your past while enlivening your future, you can book a Life Story Coaching session here.

This conversation will steer back to the heart of who you are and give you language and stories to express that authentically to others.

Life Story Coaching

(Founding members are entitled to book one of these sessions as part of their membership.)

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