Storytelling with Impact | Personal Stories

A Perfect Life Uprooted – Salima Saxton at The Moth in London

February 6, 2025/in Family, Mental Health, Personal Stories, The Moth, Trauma/by Mark Lovett

The Moth has been hosting storytelling events for 20+ years, and the thousands of storytellers who have graced their stages are proof that every story is unique, and that the best stories come from our personal experiences.

In this story told at The Moth London Mainstage on September 28, 2023, Salima Saxton talks about how her (nearly) perfect life was uprooted when her husband had a nervous breakdown, and the changes they entire family made in order to build an even better life.

I’ve encountered a lot of people whose lives were interrupted by an unforeseen event. In this situation it was a mental health issue, but for others it could be a physical health crisis, death in the family, or one of many other scenarios. And quite often these people don’t feel that their story is anything exceptional, not worth sharing on a stage. But I can assure you that there are people out there who will benefit from such stories, so spend a bit of time watching Salima’s talk and thinking about she constructed it. Here are a few of my own observations.

Salima begins her story by taking us to a specific point in time, and it happens to be a day, Valentine’s Day, that we assume would be a happy day. But such is not the case, as the mood turns dark when her husband, Carl, comes into the room. Over the next minute it becomes apparent that Carl is struggling, although we still don’t know any of the details, or the reason why. She has our attention.

Rather than tell us what’s happening, Salima takes a step back in time to share the moment when she first met her husband, and in doing so, we return to a romantic story line, one which culminates in their marriage.

We get a sense of their domesticated life in a shishi neighborhood where their kids attended private school, where they didn’t learn much, which gets a laugh, and thus keeps the tone of her story uplifting at this juncture.

The tone shifts again with her comment about their lives lacking joy, and that brings us back to the opening of the story, to Valentine’s Day, nearing the half way point of the story. Think about how much has been said in 5 1/2 minutes.

In short order their lives are turned upside down in an effort to take care of her husband, and we get a clear sense of Salima’s self-determination to do whatever it takes. We also hear a change in attitude as she “couldn’t give a fuck actually”.

When hearing a well-told story you sometimes hear a brilliant line that defines the topic. In this case, “when your life explodes and it morphs into something far better, the fear evaporates, disappears, distills, just goes into the atmosphere”

With calm returning to their lives, she beautifully brings the story to an end. An impactful personal story connects the audience to the storyteller, while at the same time inspiring us to reflect on our own lives, and what’s really important.

Valentine’s Day. It reminded me that most success is a wiggly line on a grubby piece of graph paper. I used to think of success as tick, tick, tick, ambition, ambition, ambition. Now? Now I think of it as… Finding the people, finding the places that make you feel safe and bring you home.

Transcript

00:00 So, it was Valentine’s Day. My husband Carl came into the sitting room and he closed the door. He was wearing a big thick winter coat even though it was quite mild outside, and he was shivering, he was trembling. I didn’t recognize him.

Something terrible has happened, he said.

00:22 My husband Carl is a coper. He is a man with a plan. If you want someone on your team, pick Carl. He’s an oak tree.

Then he said, I just can’t do this anymore. Whatever I do, it is never enough. He had a business. He has a business. He’d been navigating it through COVID, through Brexit, through all of it.

And I’m embarrassed to admit right now that I just kind of got used to him being stressed all the time. I barely saw it anymore.

And then he added, do you love me? Can you still love me? Because sometimes I just think it would be better if I wasn’t here anymore.

01:11 I met Carl when I was 22 in the waiting room of an audition room for a Bollywood film. Neither of us got the part. I asked him for the time, as a really spurious reason to talk to him, because he was simply the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my life.

On our first date, I asked him if he wanted children over the starter. I cried over the main course. I am a crier. And over dessert, I very optimistically asked him for a second date. Miraculously, he agreed, and six weeks later, he asked me to marry him.

01:56 The following summer, we were married in a London registry office. Me in a red vintage dress, him in an ill-fitting suit. He still looked really handsome. We cobbled together a reception at a pub down the road. A chef friend of ours and made a big chocolate cake, and we bought tons of boxed wine from a cash and carry.

So on my side, my family. There was my dad, very angry because I’d walked myself down the aisle. There were my extended family, the Buddhists, the Amnesty International members, the Liberals, the very earnest guests. On the other side was Carl’s family. They were different.

There was a man called Mickey Four Fingers, whose name really explains the man. There was a group of ex-cons whose gold jewellery competed for attention with their gold teeth. And then there was his dear dementia-ridden mum, Pat. She’d actually been a getaway driver for her naughty brothers in the 80s. She was an amazing woman, but now she just called everybody darling, very, very charmingly, but mainly because she didn’t really know where she was or who any of them were.

So it was a joyous, it was a sad, it was an awkward, it was a stressful occasion. And it made both of us yearn for elders that could be there to hold our hands in such big life events.

03:30 We both wanted to rocket away from our upbringings. Carl, partly for physical safety. Both of us, no, really for physical safety. Both of us for emotional safety. And together we did that. I also had ideas of success from 90s rom-coms and TV series.

You remember, The Party of Five, the O.C.. I had an idea that if I had a kitchen island, freshly cut flowers, linen napkins and a gardener, like just a weekend one, then somehow the perfect TV family would just walk in.

04:09 So together, Carl and I did actually do some of that. We lived in the shishi neighborhood. I had a tiny dog that I carried under my arm, Raymond, because he couldn’t really walk very far. And our three kids, they went to a progressive private school where they called the teachers by their first name, didn’t wear uniform, and didn’t learn so much. But they were happy in their early years, at least.

I hadn’t had this kind of education, by the way. I’d been to a state school. I’d ended up at Cambridge. I’d really been like a happy geek at school. And sometimes Carl and I wondered what we were doing, kind of pushing ourselves to such an extent to make sure that our kids went to that kind of school. I think it was another idea of ours to be safe, to be successful.

But there wasn’t much joy in all of this, you know. We were just busy, frantically scrabbling up this hill all the time. Yeah, we had the kitchen island, we did have linen napkins, but they were grubby and they were mainly kept in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

So that Valentine’s evening, when Carl said to me he couldn’t live like this anymore, it cut through all of it. He kept saying to me, do you love me? Can you still love me? Do you love me?

And I kept saying, you are loved. Oh my God, you’re so loved. I felt angry. I felt angry at him. I felt angry at me. How could we have got this so wrong that the boy in the ill-fitting suit was asking me whether I still loved him?

I phoned our family doctor who said that she thought Carl was having a breakdown and that he needed medication and respite immediately. I phoned a friend whose husband had had a breakdown a few years earlier. And I remember standing on the front lawn in my pajamas. It was dark. I was freezing cold. And I was kind of whispering into the phone so my kids wouldn’t hear, so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. I mean, who cares?

So I realized that things had to change really quickly. This life of ours that we had created was a weight around us, and Carl in particular was gasping at the surface for air. I had to change things immediately. I knew it. So I told Carl that.

I said that we were going to move to my childhood home, that we were going to take the kids out of the school and we were going to do things very differently, and look after him. He’d always looked after us.

So I did that. It was a bit like triage, I suppose. I gave notice to the school. I started to pack up the house. And then I would drive out of London with my car filled to the brim to set up my kids’ bedrooms in advance of us moving. I would do that at that end. I would go to the tip, visit schools, and then drive home to London sobbing.

07:30 I felt like I’d… I’d just taken a shrinking pill. I felt like everyone in London with their game faces was saying, who did you think you were trying to live this big life? I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. I remember saying to people, oh, please don’t tell them because I think it would make really good gossip. But then there are the people, and there are the moments that stand out for me.

There was the friend that flew across the ocean with squish mellows for my children and words for me saying, we have got this. We have got this. There were the class mums who organized my son’s birthday party. There was the woman in the playground who squeezed my hands because she could see I was feeling really wobbly.

All those signs of kindness had actually always been there, but I’d been too busy looking for other things. So for about 13 weeks, I lived on coffee, sausage rolls, and adrenaline, and by that April my kids were in their new school, Carl was beginning to resurface, and I could kind of exhale again.

That February 14th took the sheen off everything. I couldn’t give a fuck. Can I swear? I don’t know. I couldn’t care less about… I couldn’t give a fuck actually. About appearances suddenly. I just couldn’t. I felt like I’d woken up.

We lost the Deliveroo. We lost complicated cupcake flavors. We lost hotel people bar watching, which I love. We lost the perfect butter chicken tully. Oh, and we lost 24-hour access to buttons, chocolate buttons and Pringles. We lost the people for whom a postcode matters. Most surprisingly of all, we lost the fear.

Because, you know, when your life explodes and it morphs into something far better, the fear evaporates, disappears, distills, just goes into the atmosphere. I’m not scared anymore. There’s just like a little firefly of fear. And that’s to do with the health of the people that I love.

10:16 There was an afternoon last summer. I was sitting in the garden in the farmhouse that we now live in. And it was sunny. And I was watching my husband and my son tear up the lawn on the ride-on mower. There were my two girls, and they were leading their friend’s horse, Stan, to get a bowl of water just inside the front door.

And there was our cat, Tigger, failing to catch a mouse in the hedgerow. Tigger was an indoor cat, actually, in London. But now, well, gone is this skittish creature whose mood you could never predict. Instead, we have a creature that leaps up trees, parties all night, purrs by the fire. She knows exactly who she is. I think much like all of us.

11:10 Valentine’s Day. It reminded me that most success is a wiggly line on a grubby piece of graph paper. I used to think of success as tick, tick, tick, ambition, ambition, ambition. Now? Now I think of it as… Finding the people, finding the places that make you feel safe and bring you home.

Thanks.

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Storytelling And Your Moral Compass

January 16, 2025/in Identity, Moral Compass, Personal Stories/by Mark Lovett

I recently had a discussion with a client about the principles which form a story’s foundation. As we delved deeper into the subject, three principles came up over and over: Honor, Integrity, and Respect. We talked at some length and the next day I decided to summarize and share what these principles meant to us:

Honor — the story being told is true, told honestly, without embellishment or fabrication. In this light, the narrative faithfully represents the authenticity of the experiences being shared and reflects the story’s true meaning.
Integrity — the story aligns with one’s actions, words, and personal values. It respects the privacy of others involved in the story, and in some situations, requires consent from the other party. (or a notification of your intent)
Respect — the story is cognizant of personal and cultural issues regarding what is going to be included in the narrative. That could involve narrative boundaries plus an understanding of the story’s emotional impact on the storyteller and the audience.

At the intersection of honor, integrity, and respect

Another subject arose as we discussed how those principles interact with each other: moral compass. As we considered the term it seemed evident that our moral compass must be positive in nature, as it’s based (as we saw it) on the three principles of honor, integrity, and respect.

When we abandon our moral compass

But as we had to admit, people don’t always align with their moral compass. In some cases, outside influences that are not in alignment with our central values and beliefs come into play. Religious dogma or political ideology are often times out of sync with the morals we hold dear. Greed has a way of masking our idea of right and wrong if there’s the possibility of a significant financial gain, and the seductive nature of being in a position of power also has a way of obscuring our convictions. The effects of fear and intimidation, of being persecuted by others or ostracized for our beliefs can cause us to transition into preservation mode. That’s when the stories we tell ourselves and others may take a moral detour.

Silence is a story unto itself

While some folks engage in a form of moral hypocrisy due to social pressure or personal gain, others remain silent as they’re fearful of repercussions whenever they tell the truth or share their honest feelings. I get it. We’re always evaluating the potential benefit of a decision against any associated risks, and history is full of stories about people who suffered, both physically and mentally as a result of publicly sharing their values and beliefs.

It’s a time for self-awareness

I’m not here to issue a moral judgement on anyone. That’s not the point of this article. Instead, it’s a call for a moment of self-reflection when telling a personal story. To be aware of whether your story’s narrative stays in alignment with your moral compass, or has deviated in some way from your cherished principles to serve another purpose.

Dealing with the dark side

We also need to recognize that in some cases a person’s moral compass can be damaged, and as a result, they no longer believe in respecting other people. We have all seen that happen in many parts of the world as fascist governments will lie, cheat, steal, and implement policies that impair basic human rights. This isn’t an instant shift, but instead happens over time. It’s a brainwashing process that replaces respect with disrespect. When that happens, the stories that are told damage society instead of being beneficial. Not the impact we’re looking for.

When it’s time to speak up

In such cases it’s more important than ever for those people who operate from a position of Honor, Integrity, and Respect have their voice heard by all. Positive change in any society always begins with the telling of personal stories. So if at all possible, share a personal story that can change the world — for the better.

Justin Black: The Story Statistics Don’t Tell @ TEDxFolsom

August 10, 2024/in Education, Family, Personal Stories, Society, TEDx, Trauma/by Mark Lovett

The most impactful TEDx Talks are those which can alter our perspective on a subject of consequence. Sometimes that means clarifying the nature of a critical problem, or framing it in a way that adds relevance to our lives. Even though we were already aware of the situation, we now see it in a different light. In some instances, however, a speaker will introduce us to a topic we were not aware of before, or use a term that we’re unfamiliar with to describe an issue.

This was the case for me when Justin Black began describing his experience with inherited trauma. I’ve worked with a number of speakers whose childhood was affected by traumatic family situations, and our conversations included their relationship with family members, but I hadn’t thought of their experiences from a standpoint of inheritance. Justin’s talk at TEDxFolsom altered my perspective.

“And simply, what you can do, is be one caring adult. Not just working to help someone beat the odds, but change the odds for families and communities for generations and generations to come.”

Although the experiences of our youth impact us, often times negatively, we have the option of acting differently in adulthood, and thus, prevent the next generation from going down a similar path. But it requires awareness of these impacts, and a commitment to make conscious decisions that will create a better future, and as Justin demostrates, it’s possible.

As you watch his talk, take note of how Justin explains the issue in a number of ways: describing his experiences (both while growing up and later as an adult) meeting the woman who he would later marry and become parents with, and providing details on the ACES Assessment. At times his talk is painful, while at other times joyful. A key element that makes the narrative flow, is his use of humor.

There’s a transcript of his talk below, and I invite you to give it a read, as you’ll come to see how Justin structured his talk and transitioned from one story element to the next.

If you want to know more about the journey that Justin and Alexis have been on, as they help the world redefine what normal looks like I highly recommend reading their book, Redefining Normal.

Transcript

July 11, 2016, a day I would never forget, in the week that changed my life forever. I was a freshman at Western Michigan University, starting an orientation week at my scholarship program. And on the first day of orientation, I walked into a busy room filled with conversation. As a nervous freshman, I tried to find a table with the least amount of people, farthest in the back.

I came across a table with three students, and one student in particular, told me all about her summer of studying abroad in South Africa. I mean, from bungee jumping, shark cage diving, sky diving, even getting four tattoos while there. And then, it was my turn to tell her about my amazing summer, as a waiter at TGI Fridays.

But all in all, college for me was an opportunity to have a fresh start. Not a fresh start that showcased my authenticity, but pretty much the opposite. For me, I wanted to bury the memories of being the kid who didn’t have heat on Christmas morning. I wanted to bury the memories of being the kid who had his water cut off at various times of the year. And I wanted to bury the memories of being the kid who literally had to fight in school just to gain respect.

So college for me was an opportunity to hit the reset button and actually put on a mask. But Thursday, that Thursday, I felt exposed. Our first activity that Thursday consisted of two presenters passing out note cards to each student in our cohort. And with these note cards, they asked us to write something down that we had been through that no one would know by looking at us.

And not only that, pass those note cards to the front of the room to be read aloud anonymously. I mean, here I am, trying to run away from my past, and here it is right in front of me again. But the stories of triumph, the stories of overcoming that I heard from my fellow cohort members, it gave me a sense of truth and a spirit of authenticity.

And then it finally hit me. It finally hit me. I was reminded of why we were all together in that room, why each and every one of us sat in the seat that day. The truth was that this was a program for foster youth in higher education. Each and every one of us was working to defy the odds, to join a 3% of foster youth to graduate from college. Each and every one of us, as former foster youth, was working to overcome generational burdens, many of us generational traumas, from four to five generations maybe, that we didn’t choose, we didn’t want to accept, but it was put on us to overcome.

And it’s safe to say that after that activity, my conversations for the rest of the week were less casual and more authentic. So the girl with the tattoos and I, we went for a walk that evening around campus. We ended our night in the lawn of our dormitory, watching the moon peek above the buildings on campus. While laying in the grass, we started to share what led us to this point in life.

What had us join this program, and even telling stories of some of our traumatic experiences. As she began to share, I remember noticing which note card was hers. She looked down in the grass with her eyes filled with tears. And she began to share with me that both her mother and her grandmother were victims of suicide.

I grabbed her hand to affirm how she felt in that moment. Then I begin to share my story. That there were two generations of drug abuse on my mom’s side of the family, and three generations of domestic violence on my dad’s side of the family. And these, everyone, these are the examples of the invisible burdens that many of us are carrying around.

While you may not have gone through what I’ve experienced or gone through what she’s experienced, each and every one of us, each and every one of us have things in our past, a family history, and many of us have traumas that we are working to overcome. These are what I would like to call inherited traumas.

Inherited traumas being generational traumas that are normalized by the previous generation, maybe your parents, maybe your grandparents. Generational traumas normalized by the previous generation and passed down to you, maybe as a part of your identity, maybe even a part of a cultural standard, but ultimately normalized in your lifetime and passed down to you.

Now, four years from that moment of laying in the grass and the greatest year of all of our lives, it’s 2020, right? Hopefully not reminiscing about it, don’t think about it, it’s okay, it’s all right, I won’t take you back. But four years from that moment, I was blessed to have the girl that I met during the orientation week become my wife.

And while marriage has been amazing, it’s been such a blessing, we had to be intentional about our past, that our past doesn’t influence our future in a relationship that we have today. But the question I have for you all, the question I want you to think about as you leave here today, is how long will we allow inherited trauma to impact who we are today?

How long will we allow inherited trauma to impact the relationship that we form? And how long will we allow inherited trauma to impact the future of our families? Now, before we were married, while we were still dating, we took an exam called the ACES Assessment. By show of fans, how many of you have heard of the ACES Assessment? How many of you have taken the ACES Assessment? Quite a few people.

ACES stands for Adverse Childhood Experiences. It’s one of the greatest predictors of our future outcomes. It assesses child abuse and childhood experiences as a public health problem. Based on your social and economic status, of where you work, live, play, and learn, some of us may have experienced more ACEs, or traumatic experiences than others. The ACEs Assessment is on a scale of one to ten. With one being the least amount of traumatic experiences, and ten being the most amount of traumatic experiences.

While we knew we had some things in our past we needed to work out and deal with, we were completely unaware of the score we would receive. And for me, while I took the ACES exam, I remember going question after question, marking a yes, and then another yes, and then another yes. And then, as heartbreaking as it was, we received our score. I had a score of a nine, and my wife had a score of a ten. The two highest scores you can receive on the exam. I guess for me on the bright side, this is one of the exams in my life where I did have a high score, so I was pretty happy about that. I’m like, hey, let’s celebrate that, you know?

But honestly, what’s the story behind the numbers? You see, two-thirds of participants have at least one or more ACE on the assessment. While one in five participants score at least a three or higher on the assessment. But let’s take it a step further. Taking it a step further, we have the different categories of ACEs. These categories of ACEs consist of abuse, neglect, and household dysfunction. These are the categories in which the assessment is based off of.

But let’s take it a step further. A step further than the numbers, and a step further than the categories themselves. I would like to highlight the iceberg. We see the tip of the iceberg is what we would like to show to the outside world; our actions, our behaviors, and for me for a long time, my accomplishments. The things we would like to highlight or showcase to the outside world.

But what’s underneath the tip of the iceberg? What’s underneath the tip of the iceberg, a lot of times is our traumas, our ACEs, our family histories, and maybe for you it’s something that many of us, that we’ve written down in a note cart that people would know about us, and something we have yet to deal with. And if we haven’t dealt with what’s underneath the tip of the iceberg, if we haven’t dealt with that yet, and it goes unaddressed, and it goes unresolved, it can easily become a part of our inherited trauma.

And then it doesn’t just become an inheritance just to you, it becomes an inheritance also for your children as well. And speaking of children, my wife and I wanted to wait at least four to five years before having children once we were married. But 2022 came rolling around, and one day she told me that her body starts to feel a bit different, and many of you know exactly what that means. So we decided to take a pregnancy test, and we saw two red lines. Two red lines that changed our life forever.

After a few Google searches, not knowing exactly what that meant, shocked, confused, we took five more pregnancy tests. We had to be sure. But August 2022 came, and we had our baby girl. And while being a parent has been such an eye-opener, has been incredible, has been amazing, I still have this sense of fear in my heart that, what if my generational trauma, what if my inherited trauma, the things that have been normalized for me as a child -the abuse, the neglect, the household dysfunction – what if what’s been normalized to me, becomes normal to her? What if my inherited trauma becomes an inheritance to her?

You see, all of our children are looking at us to lead them, to guide them, and to create the example for them, and looking at us to create their normal. But what happens when generational trauma becomes our normal? You see, when generational trauma becomes normalized, it turns into violence ripping apart families and communities. When generational trauma becomes normalized, it turns into substance abuse tearing apart entire family’s neighborhoods. And when generational trauma is normalized, it leaves nine-year-old boys like me, joining nearly half a million kids, a part of the foster care system in America.

So what do we do? How do we redefine the normal? How do we redefine the normal for ourselves, for families, and communities, and those around us? You see, if you were to draw a circle of 0.6 mile radius around a child’s home, you will be able to predict their future outcomes. Based on your environment, their education, neighborhood, and most importantly, parental influence. Yes, I believe that parental influence is the game changer. Of how we love, lead, and guide the next generation can make a world of difference.

In fact, studies showed that kids who grew up in a two-parent household are 40% more likely to graduate from college. And that’s just one aspect of parental influence. But all of us in this room, we play different roles. Some of you may currently be parents. Others may be parents down the line. And many of us know someone who’s raising a child.

So what are some simple but impactful things that we can do to make a world of difference for the society around us? Number one, the number one thing I believe we can do, is have a vision for our relationship, a vision for our relationship that consists of challenging one another to be a better version of ourselves.

Maybe it looks like you taking the ACES Assessment before you join together in a relationship. Maybe that looks like you going home, digging through your drawers, finding a note card, and writing something down that you’ve been through that people wouldn’t know by looking at you. And asking yourself, have you dealt with what’s on that note card?

The number two thing I would say, the number two thing we can do to redefine a normal is invest in the future of our children. Invest in the future of our children. While financial investment is amazing, it’s important, it’s incredible, I love it. But even more important, and even more impactful is investing in our children. What it looks like, is making sure that they can grow up and be loving and caring parents themselves, making sure that they become loving and caring parents themselves. But also being aware that we need to raise our children, knowing that how we treat them today, would be the same way they treat others when they become an adult.

And last but not least, easily most importantly, as a wise and amazing man once said, is to love your neighbor as you love yourself. While many of us play different roles, not all of us will be parents, but we can be amazing tutors, we can be incredible mentors, and we can all be loving neighbors. And as stated by Josh Ship, “Every child is one caring adult away from being a success story.”

So how can you be that caring adult? How can you redefine a normal? You must become intentional with the relationships that you form. You must invest in the future of our children. And simply, what you can do, is be one caring adult. Not only just working to help someone beat the odds, but change the odds for families and communities for generations and generations to come.

Thank you.

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The Importance of Resonance and Relevance in Storytelling

January 1, 2023/in Audience, Narrative, Personal Stories, Society, Storytelling/by Mark Lovett

Welcome to 2023! The past few years have been quite an adventure. And what a story, or for most of us, a series of stories. But that tends to be the nature of life. Stories unfold. Sometimes with our direction, but often without our permission. Which would explain why so many people have recently told me that 2023 is the year they want to tell a personal story, one that can impact others, but they just don’t know where to start.

The first question that many of them ask me is: “What makes a talk memorable?” It’s not the easiest question to answer, as there are so many factors to consider when crafting and delivering a personal story. And while speaking skills are an important element, they are not the most important factors when it comes to impacting audiences. Begin your exploration here: Resonance and Relevance. Address these two words up front, in the Ideation phase.

Will the audience be interested in my topic,
and will they find my message useful?

People will listen to stories that capture their attention, when it’s a subject they want to hear about. First step is to ask yourself, “Why will the audience care?”

Don’t just think about the answer. Write it down. Make a list. That means you’ll need to know your audience. And if you’re telling your story to more than one group: general audience vs. scientists vs. academics vs. students, the answers will vary. And that’s okay. It’s a great way to discover new audiences.

Once you’re satisfied that your story will resonate with your audience, and you have shifted from the Ideation to the Narration phase, the body of your story needs to be relevant. Ask yourself, “What will the audience think, feel and do after they hear your story?” Each of your Story Blocks should be selected and written to accomplish your intended goals.

Will they feel inspired, have you added to their knowledge, shifted perceptions, challenged a preconceived notion, given them a new way to see themselves or the world around them? In short, is your narrative relevant to their life? What can they take away from your story that will help them going forward?

I do hope that all of you who have an impactful story to share do exactly that in 2023. Maybe it’s a keynote speech, or a talk on a TEDx stage, or maybe it’s for a local community group or at a breakfast meeting. Don’t worry about the size of the audience, as touching a single person is valuable. You never know how the impact will ripple out and touch others.

So if you have a personal story to tell, and need a bit of guidance along the way, send me a message and we’ll set up a complementary call to discuss your needs. I’ve coached hundreds of storytellers, from scientists to engineers, students and academics, creatives and business leaders, special forces and prison inmates.

Know that your story is important, and that it can change the world!

Hitting the bullseye for storytelling with impact

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Daria van den Bercken: Why I take the piano on the road @ TEDSalon Berlin

January 28, 2021/in Music, Personal Stories, TED, TED Talk/by Mark Lovett

I had the pleasure of attending a special TED event in 2014. TEDSalon Berlin was just a one day affair, yet it featured a number of compelling talks that served as examples of impactful stories on global issues. This post is an analysis of a talk and performance given by Daria van den Bercken.

Watch Daria van den Bercken’s TED Talk. It’s an unusual format, as Daria plays for the audience, but also includes a video of her playing in public – within her apartment, from behind a truck, and while suspended in midair.

Her idea is simple and straightforward – to listen to music in a state of wonder, to truly listen, and to listen without prejudice – which is how we tend to listen at a very young age.

Do you have a story to tell that is intended to shift perspectives about how we encounter the arts – music, theatre, art, dance? Can you combine a narrative with a demonstration to make your point?

Transcript

Recently, I flew over a crowd of thousands of people in Brazil playing music by George Frideric Handel. I also drove along the streets of Amsterdam, again playing music by this same composer. Let’s take a look.

(Music: George Frideric Handel, “Allegro.” Performed by Daria van den Bercken.)

(Video) Daria van den Bercken: I live there on the third floor. (In Dutch) I live there on the corner. I actually live there, around the corner. and you’d be really welcome.

Man: (In Dutch) Does that sound like fun? Child: (In Dutch) Yes!

[(In Dutch) “Handel house concert”]

Daria van den Bercken: All this was a real magical experience for hundreds of reasons.

Now you may ask, why have I done these things? They’re not really typical for a musician’s day-to-day life. Well, I did it because I fell in love with the music and I wanted to share it with as many people as possible.

It started a couple of years ago. I was sitting at home on the couch with the flu and browsing the Internet a little, when I found out that Handel had written works for the keyboard. Well, I was surprised. I did not know this. So I downloaded the sheet music and started playing. And what happened next was that I entered this state of pure, unprejudiced amazement. It was an experience of being totally in awe of the music, and I had not felt that in a long time. It might be easier to relate to this when you hear it. The first piece that I played through started like this.

(Music)

Well this sounds very melancholic, doesn’t it? And I turned the page and what came next was this.

(Music)

Well, this sounds very energetic, doesn’t it? So within a couple of minutes, and the piece isn’t even finished yet, I experienced two very contrasting characters: beautiful melancholy and sheer energy. And I consider these two elements to be vital human expressions. And the purity of the music makes you hear it very effectively.

I’ve given a lot of children’s concerts for children of seven and eight years old, and whatever I play, whether it’s Bach, Beethoven, even Stockhausen, or some jazzy music, they are open to hear it, really willing to listen, and they are comfortable doing so.

And when classes come in with children who are just a few years older, 11, 12, I felt that I sometimes already had trouble in reaching them like that. The complexity of the music does become an issue, and actually the opinions of others – parents, friends, media – they start to count.

But the young ones, they don’t question their own opinion. They are in this constant state of wonder, and I do firmly believe that we can keep listening like these seven-year-old children, even when growing up. And that is why I have played not only in the concert hall but also on the street, online, in the air: to feel that state of wonder, to truly listen, and to listen without prejudice. And I would like to invite you to do so now.

(Music: George Frideric Handel, “Chaconne in G Major.” Performed by Daria van den Bercken.)

[Note: all comments inserted into this transcript are my opinions, not those of the speaker, the TED organization, nor anyone else on the planet. In my view, each story is unique, as is every interpretation of that story. The sole purpose of these analytical posts is to inspire a storyteller to become a storylistener, and in doing so, make their stories more impactful.]

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