When I was driving home from a class in Cambridge a few nights ago, I was reflecting on some of our headier coursework, which has become a healthy method of distracting myself from Salem traffic in October. It’s of course a good practice in general, but that traffic. I’ll do anything to stay sane in that. May as well think about class.
Anyway, for those of you who don’t already know, I’m in my third year of a clinical mental health counseling program at Lesley University. More importantly, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Lesley, it’s probably best that you read the rest of this blog with the understanding that this school can be a little unorthodox.
For example, it isn’t enough for professors to lecture on basic therapeutic modalities: CBT, DBT, PCT, and so on. We also dive into the auspices of grief, the rippling effects of trauma, the paradoxes of “healthy” addiction, and we’re asked to map our personal connections to all of those things in an experiential way.
In most classes, we’re tasked with excavating our relationship to the human experience, and then we often process what comes up together as a group. It’s the complex and sometimes difficult reality of “self as instrument,” which is something of a mantra in this program: we cannot be useful to others if we do not know how to tap into our own experiences. The reason for this is fairly simple: it’s a reminder to us that there will never be a clean 1-for-1 in terms of how we relate to another human being (even if we both lost a parent, we had different parents, different relationships, and so on), but if we can start confronting our own “things” now, over and over and over again, we will have a better chance at empathizing with someone else, especially if our shared experience is radically different.
In a nutshell, the experiential model at Lesley makes sure we dig up all of our demons and confront all of the skeletons in our closets. Often. Because of this, most classes can drain our batteries if we aren’t filling the cup back up somehow, and we’re even warned during our application interview that we’ll need to have a strong support system to get through this program.
In this particular class that I opened the blog with, we were practicing a therapeutic technique called Motivational Interviewing, which is a way for clinicians to “go with” a client by asking open-ended questions, guiding them ever closer to their own “aha!” moments. It’s not that we know what those revelations are in advance — how could we? It’s more that we can sense an answer is there, but we just need to help nudge our clients closer to their own awareness. So, again, we “go with.”
What does any of this have to do with storytelling?
Quite a lot, I think! Motivational Interviewing elicits a similar exchange of energy that occurs on stage between the storyteller and the audience. When someone is sharing a story, you may not be able to relate exactly to the events that unfold, but there will usually be a line or two that plucks at your heartstrings, makes you laugh out loud, reminds you about your own grief/love/anger, or a combination of all these things (and more). You are empathizing with the storyteller, and that changes how you relate to them — and to your own experience. Suddenly, you are no longer “alone.”
During class, we broke out into roleplay scenarios, which is part of our very Lesley-esque learning style. Each therapist-in-training took turns counseling each other in brief, 10-minute sessions, and although it’s embedded in our student agreements that we may not use therapy on each other, it’s sometimes hard to distinguish ourselves from the characters we’re playing, and real life can easily bleed into the classwork (“self as instrument” in action).
“Ah, I see. So, you’ve been experiencing a lot of stress around something that should be fun.”
“Yes,” my 15-year-old character replied. “Mom thinks I need to do more, though. She doesn’t get me.” Teenagers, amiright?
This is when my classmate earned a gold star:
“Ok, well, if your mom understood that she was causing you stress, would that change anything?”
My mind bubbled up with a thousand real-life examples. Not about my own mom (not the right blog for that), but about the things in my life that cause me stress, including this beautiful experience we’re creating together: the Salem Story Series.
Most small business owners can relate, I think. We pour our hearts into building something that people will enjoy, but if we aren’t carefully filling our cups back up somehow, all of that pouring can take a toll.
Centering on the good
I was a career marketer for a bulk of my adult life. I started right out of college by content writing on the side while I worked in tech, and then somewhere around the mid-2010s, those worlds bled together until I started managing big marketing teams. Before I knew it, work was life, and life was work, and the desperate need to break out of that loop is what brought me to school, and to the story series.
However, there’s a grim truth that every event organizer and/or producer will tell you about creating something like this: an event is only as good as its marketing.
Therein, I think, blossomed the conundrum that had me spinning in class.
“I don’t think Mom needs to really be part of this,” I replied, still in character. “I actually think it’s a me thing.”
When I left that classroom and wandered toward my car, I started thinking about how the past few months have gone, and I tried to focus on the things that my own therapist tells me produce a “spark of life” whenever I mention them:
- I’ve met so many incredible people, in Salem itself, online through the Street Stories, and from friends-of-friends. My cup runneth over with how many new terrific connections I’ve made, just by staying visible.
- I’ve learned a TON about event marketing. Even though I did so much of this full-time for giant corporations, it’s so different when you’re on your own. Also, as a very real perk: if/when I start my own practice, learning all that I have about marketing and running a small business is for sure going to bear fruit in terms of jumpstarting my caseload.
- I get to see the moment when people realizing they are already storytellers. It’s incredible knowing that I get to pass the torch to other people who are now falling in love with this art form that kept me going back to other stages.
- I’m able to use my skills “for good” this time, instead of how it felt when I was marketing Fortune 500s. To be clear, I’m making no money for myself with any of this (I’m pouring too much of my own money into everything, actually, but that’s a future Shay problem). It isn’t really about that.
It struck me that I have felt stress since this journey started, especially as I approach each show week. I even joked with my partner about this feeling a few days ago, but it didn’t feel very funny.
I think I have been letting my old life creep into these moments. For instance, Career Marketer Shay wants me to start going over lists, buttoning up every detail, fretting over engagement on social media, pushing myself into a panic over making sure that people saw the event flyers all over town.
But the Shay who’s inching his way out of that world is looking at the momentum that’s already building around Salem Story Series and saying, “Wow, wait. Stop for a sec. Just look at what we did!” He’s trying to give me a gentle reminder to let in the joy again.
In a way, the roleplay allowed me to reflect on how some stress is “good stress,” as long as I’m still letting myself feel the good moments before I backfill completed tasks with more tasks; as long as I’m filling up my cup again.
It’s all about the stories
I don’t know if there’s a “conclusion” here, other than to muse a little more about how easy it is to fall back into old patterns, and how an awareness of that can help pull people back out just as quickly.
Will I change my marketing plan for events? Maybe a little! The structure of it is sound, and I already know I’m remaining authentic in my messaging (a gift and a curse my whole career). Not much needs to change, really.
However I think what I’ve learned from this reflection is more about bringing the joy back in, and remembering to honor the good things just as much as I let myself toil over the tasks that keep the lights on.
After all: this really is all about the stories. Telling them, listening to them, and offering up a stage for everyone else to do the same.
So with that, I’ll remind everyone about the show on October 27th. The theme is “Haunted,” Jeff Swartz is the featured storyteller, and it’s going to be a great time. We have plenty of tickets left for sale if you want to buy in advance for $8! If you’d rather buy them for $10 at the door, we’ll have room for you there, too.
Come if you can! If you can’t, I hope I’ll see you soon!
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