Storytelling with Impact | Personal Stories

Chris Bell protects his family from a possible intruder – Live at The Moth

July 2, 2025/in Family, Humor, Personal Stories, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

Sometimes our personal stories fall into the “life is full of unexpected surprises” category, and this is a perfect example. Chris Bell believes someone is breaking into his apartment, which poses a threat to his family, but in reality, it’s not the intruder he assumed it would be — it was the police.

Such stories remind us that what we think may be going on, may not always be correct. But at the same time, even stories that involve a mistake at one level, can hold deeper meaning below the surface and say something new about us.

What I appreciated about Chris Bell’s story, is the blend of humor and tension in his narrative. A bit of self-deprecating humor with the chunky peanut butter, the confusion about what was making the sound in his kitchen, the tense moments of confronting a potential intruder, followed by relief that it was only the police.

What about you? What stories do you have to tell that, on the one hand are a bit embarrassing, yet on the other hand, revealed something about your character?

Transcript

It’s 3 AM and I can’t sleep. Because I’m up wondering what I would do if my wife and two young kids were ever attacked by a grizzly bear.

I mean, would I have the courage to stand up to this beast and just do whatever I can do to protect them? Or would fear hijack my decisions and cause me to freeze or even worse, run away?

I don’t know. And that’s why this scenario has bothered me, haunted me, ever since the moment I first became a father.

Fortunately, there aren’t any grizzly bears in our neighborhood. But there have been several break-ins and robberies. Our landlord worked the night shift, so he installed this big fancy security system in his luxury apartment upstairs. But downstairs, in our barely basic two bedroom, I’m left to be my family’s security system.

So when my wife tells me she saw a mouse skurry across the kitchen floor, I see it as an opportunity to prove myself. The next day I immediately go to the store and pick up one jar of premium organic peanut butter. That’s just like me, a little chunky.

And after everyone goes to sleep, I put a little bit of that peanut butter on a mousetrap and strategically place it in our kitchen. Now, this night we’re experiencing waves of heavy rain and wind. It looks like someone’s throwing buckets of water against the window. And when the wind hits the house, you can hear the walls creak and groan. Around 11:00, I’m just watching the news and pop, the electricity just goes out.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I wake up to a bang. And I remember, ah, my mousetrap. So I get up, out of bed, wearing nothing but my boxers, flick the light switch and realize the power’s still out. Then I hear it again. Bang, bang.

So now I’m thinking, the mouse must have got its tail caught in the trap and it’s running around the kitchen, slapping it on the walls and cabinets. So now I’m rushing down the hall in my boxers, in the dark, trying to get to this mouse before it tears up our kitchen.

And right as I’m about to turn the corner, bang, bang, bang! And I stop. Because that doesn’t sound like a mouse. That sounds like a rat. And a big one.

So I go to the pantry and grab a broom and hold it like a spear from Wakanda. Cuz I know I got one shot to stab this thing before it tries to bite me.

So I carefully creep around the corner and leap into the kitchen. Only to see my trap right where I left it, untouched. Now I’m standing there wondering, what’s making that noise?

And from the kitchen door by my son’s bedroom, bang, bang, bang! Startled, I turn around to look through the window to see the figure of a dark shape pounding on the door. That’s when I realized, it wasn’t a mouse, it wasn’t a rat, that’s the sound of someone trying to break into our apartment.

And just then my son comes out of his bedroom in his Batman pajamas. And behind me, I hear the footsteps of my wife and daughter coming down the hall. So out of pure reflex, I turn the broom sideways and slam all my weight up against the door, trying to keep whoever wanted in out.

But now I’m close enough to see that there’re actually three figures pressing to get in. And they’re all bigger than I am. And when they see me, they erupt into shouting. And this causes my daughter to scream and my son to burst into tears. And at this point, my heart is beating like thunder because I’m I’m just gonna be real, I was scared.

This wasn’t some imaginary grizzly bear. This was real. And I knew if I couldn’t keep this door shut, they would get in and possibly hurt my family. And that thought terrified me. But it was the feeling of fear that told my body, you need to do something.

So I closed my eyes and pressed my nose up against the window so they could see my face clearly. And I did the one thing that I felt would turn these intruders away. I gripped my teeth and I growled.

But I growled like I was delivering a contract written in my own blood that said if they dared cross this threshold, I will show them exactly how ferocious a protective parent can be. And when I opened my eyes, the figures were now completely still. And the sound of their shouting was replaced by the soft sound of rain.

But now the figure up front revealed that he had his arms fully extended, revealing that there was only a thin pane of glass in between my chest and his gun. And when I saw this, I just felt like I was frozen.

And that’s when I heard, “Sir, drop the stick.” Followed by my wife, “Babe, I think it’s the police.”

Five minutes later, three very wet police officers are standing in the center of our kitchen. Turns out the wind from the storm shook the house so bad that it triggered one of the motion detectors from my landlord’s security system upstairs. This sent a silent alarm to the police station. So when they responded, started pounding on doors and looking through windows, they saw me standing in the kitchen, in my boxers, holding a broom as a weapon.

They thought they stumbled across a domestic situation.

Eventually, I got to explain my side of the story. And after I did, the officer who pulled his service weapon stepped up and said, “So so you mean to tell me I almost shot you because you was trying to catch a mouse? With a broom?”

My wife is not gonna believe this.

Fifteen years later, my young kids are now college students. And uh, believe it or not, we have never been attacked by a grizzly bear.

But if you were to ask me the same question, what would I do? I’ll still be real and say, I don’t know. But after the night I tried to protect my family from a mouse, I am a little bit more certain that I wouldn’t just run away. Thank you.

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What if community is built by sharing stories we hide?

June 24, 2025/in Community, Personal Stories, Public Speaking, Storytelling, TEDx/by Mark Lovett

Sónia Silva is a master storyteller. It’s as simple as that. Full disclosure, I do know Sónia as we’re friends who also work together on the TEDxLisboa curation team. So I was quite happy to hear that she was going to give a TEDx talk of her own at TEDxPraça Gil Eanes in Portugal. Her talk, What if community is built by sharing stories we hide?, speaks to the ability of our personal stories to connect people, and in doing so, strengthen communities. If you have a story to tell, but you’ve been holding back, this is a story that you should listen to.

Sónia Silva is a communication coach and trainer specializing in voice, storytelling, and public speaking. With a Master’s in Clinical Linguistics and a background in speech therapy, she combines scientific knowledge with a coaching approach to help entrepreneurs and leaders develop their vocal expression, refine their message, and deliver it with confidence and impact

There’s so much wisdom in Sónia’s talk, so much so that I can’t highlight it all, but here are five pearls of wisdom that resonated with me.

But what if the real glue between us isn’t sameness, but the courage to live our own really messy human stories?
Stories turn strangers into people we care about.
Tell your story, even if it’s messy, even if your voice shakes. Create space, build community, not to fit in, not to perform, to belong.
Empathy doesn’t come from headlines or from data. It’s emotional education by direct exposure without someone else’s filter.
When we find meaning together, we co-create future. When we find meaning together, we co-create relations.

As I’ve written about many times before, the essence of personal storytelling is sharing a part of your life experience with others, so that they can understand themselves, their community, and the world at large in a new way.

And I loved her mentioning “messy human stories”, as every person I’ve worked with over the years had a messy story to tell in some respect. Truth be told, they didn’t always tell the messy parts, which was a shame, as what’s different about us, and discussing what didn’t work out the way we wanted, forges a stronger connection with those hearing your story.

Remember my opening line? Where I mention Sónia is a master storyteller? Well, consider this a masterclass in how to craft a compelling story that includes you — the storyteller — but focuses on the wisdom that you bring to an audience. Watch her talk (at least once, preferably more) and read the transcript below. You’ll find it’s time well spent.

Transcript

I remember the moment the doors swung open and I saw 25 kids stare me up and down. I was six years old, and I did what I knew best. I hid behind two large trees: my father’s legs. We had just moved from Germany to Portugal, to Lagos, my family’s hometown. And my mother gently assured me, “Darling, don’t worry. In Portugal, all the kids are just like you.”

What does that even mean when you’re six? Sure, I spoke Portuguese, sure, I looked Portuguese. I still do. Brown eyes, brown hair. But the way I dressed with funky leggings and Birkenstocks, and my references, and the way I carried myself, it was all German.

I forced myself into a new story, one that said behave Portuguese, and I started to perform belonging. I pushed my parents to buy me a new backpack and new clothes, like a round collar shirt I hated, just to fit in. And you know the funny thing? Back in Germany, all I dreamt about was being blonde.

This in-between feeling made me write stories to cope with it, and to feel seen. So, look around, and I mean it. Look to the person behind you, to the person next to you, please. How many times have you changed who you are, your tone, your clothes, perhaps even the way you love, just to fit into one narrative?

We bump into each other, we wave at our neighbors, and yet, our stories remain unheard. Are we a community, or just people sharing time and space? We think community or belonging is about sameness, you know, same beginnings, same milestones, same endings.

But what if the real glue between us isn’t sameness, but the courage to live our own really messy human stories? What if instead of asking where do I fit in, we ask what story do I bring? That shift turns us from spectators to co-creators, and from performing to really showing up. And as we scroll our life away, I think this is deeply needed.

My old shyness made me help people find their voice as a communication coach. And today I want to share with you how public storytelling helps us build stronger communities and find our voice as well. So, my first real taste of public storytelling was Humans of New York.

I stumbled on a post and I saw an old street cleaner sitting in a bench. He was remembering how he used to play there with his little brother, and how he used to protect him from the monsters of the neighborhood. That park was their safe place, like my father’s legs were mine. So, different story, different time, but same emotion.

That hit me. Stories turn strangers into people we care about. Brandon Stanton wasn’t trying to save the world, to preach, or even to sell. He just listened to stories, he took pictures, and he shared their exact words. It started a global craving for stories, of regular people, anonymous citizens, like us, not celebrities. And why? Because they resonate.

There was also The Moth, a live stage where people tell their personal stories. Just guts and grace. In a dark room full of people, they cry, they laugh, and they breathe in sync. And what about Human Library? Even better. You don’t borrow books, you borrow people. And you sit with them face to face.

Someone society has deep stigmas about. And you read through their life with an honest conversation. What these projects have in common is that they were built with and for community. They started small, and they had volunteers who believed in the power of stories to create change. No fancy setup, no forcing, just curiosity and presence.

What moves me most is what they teach us. Empathy doesn’t come from headlines or from data. It’s emotional education by direct exposure without someone else’s filter. In public storytelling, you don’t end with a solid, moral conclusion. Each one has the freedom to pick what they want. And that’s totally the opposite of how I was taught stories at home or at school. If you missed that one correct answer, you failed the test. Do you remember that?

Now, I know what some of you might be thinking: “Oh, there she is, telling that we should reveal ourselves to the world.” Well, no. That’s exactly the myth I want to break. Being yourself doesn’t mean being by yourself. Personal stories are not narcissism. They are invitation. Have you ever wondered why so many TED talks have personal stories? It’s not coincidence, and it’s backed by science.

Researcher Paul Zak explains that when we tell an emotionally engaging story with a good structure, you trigger oxytocin, the hormone that is responsible for trust, connection, even community. So, when we share something, and it doesn’t mean a secret, it means sharing something real and raw, meaning being vulnerable, you open the door, not to be stared up to, but to invite people to do the same. And when you listen, you often find yourself and you act.

Like in the project Hart Verhaalt in The Hague, where they bring together communities that often don’t cross paths, like older Dutch migrants and Pakistani women. They tell their story, they clap, but afterwards, they collaborate. They reflect and they discuss with the audience. And sometimes they start projects inside the city, when before that, they ignored their existence.

When we find meaning together, we co-create future. When we find meaning together, we co-create relations. And eventually, I grabbed the mic and I became a storyteller. And I became a volunteer, and I became the co-host of the Portuguese edition of Storytelling Lisboa, where I welcome between 80 to 100 people. Portuguese, foreigners, and even cats! All colors, all ages, like the perfect Portuguese patchwork.

One day I told a story about my body, about validation, about sex, and still not being a mother. Women cried with me, womb to womb. At the end of the event, while I was putting away the chairs, a person came up to me, a young man, 18, 20 years. And he said, “You’re gonna make it.” And we gave a hug, strong and lasting. And for a moment, he was the storyteller. So I whispered, “I think you have a story too.” And he said, “I do. But I’m not ready yet. Thank you for sharing yours. Now I see you.” I have just met a man with a wound like mine.

We had more in common than gender could guess. And it’s from these brief unexpected moments that we realize that we are all carrying stories, even when we don’t know how to tell them yet. When we are honest, you don’t control who you touch, but you create the space for it.

And nowadays I can tell you that I wear my leggings and my Birkenstocks with no shame. We have built something beautiful in Lisbon. It’s a monthly comeback to stories around an imaginary campfire. But not to retell stories that no longer serve us from generation to generation. We tell new ones, open to all the human experience, with self-acceptance and with agency. That’s why I believe that these places are truly important, especially in countries like Portugal, full of identities and still afraid to speak out. We are quiet, we dismiss ourselves.

So, in case you’re wondering, how can I create such spaces? Let me share with you five key elements.

First one: Warmth. I feel welcomed. A cozy space, warm lights, a clear tone, a group of volunteers that welcome you and enable storytelling practices so you can feel safe.

Second: Empathy. I’m not alone. We echo stories, not to fix you. We share and we recognize emotions, and each one is accountable for the way they show up.

Third: Perspective. I never thought about it this way. Thematic events, they help us broaden our perspectives. We see the experiences on the same topic with different lenses, but the same humanity.

Fourth: Inclusivity. I respect. No hate speech. When everyone is included, we grow. You don’t have to agree, but you respect.

Fifth: Dialogue. Tell me more. Curiosity opens dialogue, and conversations build community. And you know what’s the best of it? You don’t need permission. Anyone can create the space, anyone can hold space.

So let me close with this. We are made of cells, but mostly we are made of stories. Stories shape our beliefs. Stories shape the way we act, we connect, and how we will be remembered. We keep reteling stories that no longer serve us, or even worse, we allow other people to silence them, or to write them for us.

And that ties us to a single thread, a single narrative. By sharing our imperfect stories and truly listen to others, we are reclaiming back community as a space of belonging and not of conformity, so we can weave a web of stories and threads that holds us across divisions.

Sometimes you go far away to find community, but look around, and you may find it. Storytelling is the way of saying, “I see you, I hear you, I’m here too.” So this is my final call: Tell your story, even if it’s messy, even if your voice shakes. Create space, build community, not to fit in, not to perform, to belong.

Obrigada.

Back to you…

Okay, so now you’re inspired to share your story, regardless of who you are and the mess you’ve made. But if you’re still hesitating to share, think about how the connections we make through storytelling provide that sense of belonging we all yearn for. Let others know they’re not alone. That a story told is a story heard.

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Your Stories, AI, and George Washington

May 31, 2025/in Democracy, Government, Personal Stories, Writing/by Mark Lovett

On this day in 1790, President George Washington signed into law the first U.S. Copyright Act. The Act emerged from the unique intersection of Enlightenment ideals, economic necessity, and the practical challenges facing a new nation as leaders were trying to establish its cultural and intellectual identity.

To understand why the law felt so urgent to the Founders, we need to step back and consider the current situation. In colonial America, there was no protection for authors’ works. Publishers could freely reprint books without compensating the original author, which created an environment of need without incentive.

George Washington Signed the U.S. Copyright Act on May 31, 1790

The Founders recognized this as more than just an economic problem — it was a threat to the kind of society they were trying to build. They believed deeply in the power of knowledge and education to sustain a republic. Think about it: how could America develop its own intellectual traditions, its own literature, its own scientific contributions, if there was no financial incentive for Americans to write and publish?

When Washington signed the Act, he was addressing several interconnected challenges. First, there was the immediate practical need to protect American authors so they could make a living from their work. Second, there was a desire to encourage the growth of American publishing and printing industries, which were still quite small compared to their British counterparts. Third, and perhaps most importantly, there was the recognition that a healthy democracy required an informed citizenry, and that meant fostering a robust marketplace of ideas.

If you enjoyed this article…

The law itself reflected these concerns in interesting ways. It protected books, maps, and charts for fourteen years, with the possibility of renewal for another fourteen years if the author was still alive. This was actually quite generous compared to many state laws of the time, but deliberately limited to prevent the kind of perpetual monopolies that the Founders associated with European aristocracy.

It embodied a carefully considered philosophical approach that prioritized societal benefits while providing necessary incentives for creative production. The legislation was conceived in essentially utilitarian terms, taking as its primary goal the encouragement of intellectual activity and production for the good of society as a whole.

This framework aimed to guarantee both material benefits for creators and intellectual benefits for readers, recognizing that sustainable creative industries required economic incentives while knowledge advancement demanded public access to creative works.

The limited scope of the initial law — protecting only books, maps, and charts — demonstrated a focused approach to establishing the copyright system. Rather than creating a centralized copyright office, the legislation directed authors and proprietors to register their works at U.S. district courts in their areas of residence, establishing a decentralized but systematic approach to copyright administration.

Consider how this law would have affected someone like Benjamin Franklin, who was not only a scientist, inventor, and statesman but also a prolific writer and publisher in Philadelphia.

Benjamin Franklin was the author of Poor Richard's Almanac

Without copyright protection, Franklin’s “Poor Richard’s Almanac” could have been freely copied by competitors, eliminating his incentive to continue producing it. The same principle applied to countless other potential authors whose stories and ideas might never have reached the public without the economic protection this law provided.

The timing of this legislation — just one year after the Constitution was ratified — reveals how fundamental the Founders considered intellectual property rights to be a critical step in the country’s evolution. They understood that the stories a nation tells about itself, through its literature, its newspapers, its scientific works, and its philosophical treatises, shape its character and destiny. By protecting authors’ rights to profit from their work, they were essentially investing in America’s future capacity to generate and share knowledge.

To ensure broad awareness of the new protections, the Act was widely printed in newspapers following its passage. This dissemination strategy reflected the government’s recognition that the law’s effectiveness depended upon public understanding of both the rights it created and the obligations it imposed.

Copyright Law and AI Training

Navigating Intellectual Property in the Age of Large Language Models

The rapid advancement of large language models (LLMs) has ignited a global debate about the ethical and legal implications of training artificial intelligence systems on copyrighted materials. As AI companies increasingly rely on vast datasets scraped from the internet, questions about intellectual property rights, fair use doctrines, and the boundaries of creative ownership have moved to the forefront of legal and technological discourse.

Major Pending Cases

1. The New York Times v. OpenAI/Microsoft (2024)

Allegation: ChatGPT reproduces NYT articles verbatim and creates derivative works that compete with original reporting.
Defense: OpenAI claims transformative use through factual summarization and cites precedents like Authors Guild v. Google (2015).
Status: Oral arguments scheduled for Q3 2025; considered a bellwether for news media rights.

2. Sarah Silverman et al. v. Meta (2023)

Allegation: LLaMA model trained on pirated book copies from “shadow libraries” like Bibliotik.
Defense: Meta argues dataset providers warranted copyright compliance, shifting liability.
Status: Motion to dismiss pending; could establish liability chains in dataset procurement.

3. Getty Images v. Stability AI (2023)

Allegation: Stable Diffusion outputs contain modified Getty watermarks, proving unauthorized training.
Defense: Stability AI claims watermark removal constitutes transformative use.
Status: UK High Court allowed copyright claim to proceed to trial in 2025.

Regulatory Developments

U.S. Copyright Office Report (May 2025): Concluded that “unauthorized reproduction of entire creative works for commercial AI training likely exceeds fair use boundaries”. Recommended congressional action to clarify liability.
EU AI Act (2024): Requires AI companies to document all copyrighted materials used in training and implement opt-out mechanisms for rights holders.

Key Legal Arguments

Plaintiffs’ Position: Training constitutes mass infringement by creating unauthorized copies during data ingestion. Outputs act as derivative works, violating market value.
Defense Position: Training is transformative analysis protected by fair use, analogous to human learning. Outputs don’t replicate protected expression.

Back to you…

This is obviously a very complex topic, but I bring it up as many of my clients have published books which formed the foundation of their speaking career. In other cases, clients have worked on crafting their signature talk, and now realize there’s a book to be written.

Some storytellers are okay with their stories being referenced by AI — they feel the exposure is a positive thing. Others, however, believe their original works should be protected — they think that if they end up in the public domain they will suffer financially.

I’m not sure what the outcome will be, but I’m thinking that if President George Washington was alive today he would be concerned about how the Act is being circumvented — that the intent of protecting intellectual property was being ignored in the name of amassing wealth.

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Embracing Narrative Transportation

April 5, 2025/in Narrative, Nonfiction, Personal Stories, Storytelling, Writing/by Mark Lovett

We’ve all had the experience of being pulled into a story — fiction or nonfiction — to the point where the rest of the world seems to fade away. Reading books and watching movies are common examples, but this phenomenon also occurs when we’re watching a play, listening to a podcast or watching a public speaker delivering a talk stage. In each case, we’ll experience the storyteller’s story. This doesn’t happen every time, of course, as a story must capture our attention to such an extent that the narrative’s world becomes our world. And although it’s often associated with fictional stories, it applies equally to personal stories.

So what do we mean by narrative?

Well, if you ask a dozen people and you’ll most likely get a dozen answers to that question, but here’s my take. In personal storytelling, a narrative builds a world in which you (and other characters) interact with life through the properties of space, time, and events. Beyond the characters, settings, and experiences, this narrative also touches on thoughts, emotions, insights, and reflections.

An impactful personal story, which is what I’m all about, seeks to present each narrative element, each story block, in a way that transforms a simple memory into a compelling and authentic story that conveys deeper truths about our life, values, beliefs, insights, and lessons learned.

When well-crafted, personal stories inform, inspire, connect, and engage others. But as I’ve mentioned, not all personal stories are equally effective in this regard. In the balance of this post, we’ll take a look at how we can create more impactful stories by understanding and using the principles of narrative transportation.

This is a subject that has been studied extensively during the past twenty years. Cognitive scientists & social psychologists, as well as literary & communication scholars, have all weighted in on this and a handful of related topics which I’ve included below to provide a fuller picture of what it all means.

Narrative Transportation is the psychological experience of being so fully immersed in a story that you temporarily feel transported into its world, losing awareness of your physical surroundings and experiencing the events alongside the characters. This powerful storytelling effect occurs when a narrative captures your imagination so completely that you emotionally respond to the story as if it were happening to you, often leading to stronger message retention, attitude changes, and even behavioral shifts after the story ends. When stories achieve narrative transportation, audiences don’t just understand the plot—they live it, making this phenomenon one of the most valuable tools in a storyteller’s arsenal.

Immersion in storytelling is the powerful sensation of being mentally and emotionally transported into a fictional world, where readers or viewers temporarily forget their surroundings and become deeply engaged with the characters and events unfolding before them. When a story successfully creates immersion, the audience experiences the narrative as if they were living through it themselves, with all their senses activated and their attention fully captured by the plot, setting, and characters. This state of being completely absorbed in a story world is what allows people to laugh, cry, or feel fear while experiencing fiction, making immersion one of the most sought-after qualities in effective storytelling across books, films, games, and other media.

Absorption in storytelling refers to the state where readers or viewers become so deeply engaged with a narrative that they lose awareness of their surroundings, experiencing a mental transportation into the story world. Effective storytelling creates this absorption by combining compelling characters, rich sensory details, emotional resonance, and well-paced action that captures attention so completely that time seems to pass unnoticed, leaving the audience fully immersed in the fictional experience rather than merely observing it from the outside.

Engagement in storytelling refers to the ability of a narrative to capture and hold a reader’s or audience’s attention, creating an emotional and intellectual connection that makes them invested in the story’s outcome. Effective engagement occurs when audiences become so immersed in the characters, plot, and world that they temporarily set aside their awareness of reality, experiencing genuine emotional responses—whether tension, joy, sadness, or surprise—and feeling compelled to continue following the story to its conclusion. This connection is achieved through relatable characters, meaningful conflicts, authentic dialogue, and pacing that balances revelation with anticipation, all working together to create an experience that resonates with the audience long after the story ends.

Involvement in storytelling refers to the ability of a narrative to emotionally engage and immerse its audience, creating a connection that makes readers or viewers feel invested in the characters and outcome. An effective story draws people in through relatable characters, compelling conflicts, and authentic emotional stakes that resonate with universal human experiences. When a story achieves strong involvement, the audience temporarily forgets they’re experiencing fiction—instead, they empathize with the characters’ struggles, celebrate their victories, and feel genuine concern for their wellbeing. This deep level of engagement is what separates forgettable tales from stories that linger in our minds and hearts long after they’ve ended.

I have captured a number of phrases from the above descriptions that illustrate the effect engrossing stories have on an audience. As you’ll see, while there’s an intellectual aspect to the process, the emphasis is largely on the emotional response that well-crafted stories invoke in an audience.

emotional resonance
emotionally engaging
psychological experience
transported into its world
fully immersed in the story
stronger message retention
achieves strong involvement
time seems to pass unnoticed
completely absorbed in a story world
mentally and emotionally transported
invested in the characters and outcome
empathizes with the characters’ struggles
losing awareness of physical surroundings
experiencing genuine emotional responses
resonates with universal human experiences
senses activated, and attention fully captured
deeply engaged with the characters and events
experiencing the events alongside the characters
creating an emotional and intellectual connection
experiencing a mental transportation into the story

How do these expressions align with your experiences? I think the concept of transportation is most appropriate, as there’s movement, a shift that occurs in our perception of reality. We care about what happens; we get excited and sad, we laugh and cry, we feel tension and relief.

But are these shifts temporary, or is there a longer term effect? Does the effect linger, or is the spell broken once the story ends? That depends on a number of factors, such as how relatable and relevant the story is, but the simple answer is that personal stories based on our experiences, as opposed to fictional stories built for entertainment, resonate more deeply, leaving a lasting impression.

During narrative transportation, our mental energies — encompassing attention, emotions, and imagery — become primarily focused on events unfolding within the story, and in turn, we will become cognitively, emotionally, and imaginatively absorbed in the narrative. By fostering connections with characters and evoking relevant emotions, personal stories can effectively influence how audiences feel about certain subjects or individuals.

What Factors Support Narrative Transportation?

I’m often asked what makes a personal story compelling, and the components of narrative transportation reveal a number of topics to consider. You’ll find some overlap in the list below, as the terms do relate to each other in important ways, but they’re worth considering individually, and they all play a role in telling your personal story.

fluency — refers to the smooth, effortless way a story flows, naturally transitioning between scenes and ideas, allowing readers or listeners to become fully immersed in the narrative world and lose awareness of their physical surroundings.
similarity — refers to the connection an audience feels between themselves and story elements, such as characters, experiences, backgrounds, cultures, beliefs, and values, making a story more relatable and engaging.
relevance — refers to how well a narrative connects with the audience’s existing experiences, values, or concerns, mirroring their own lives in important ways, making the story feel personally meaningful and relatable.
coherence — refers to the logical and meaningful connection between all elements of a narrative — characters, events, settings, and themes — with events unfolding in ways that make sense within the theme of the narrative.
familiarity — refers to the degree to which elements of a story, such as settings, characters, situations, or emotional truths, resonate with a reader’s existing knowledge, experiences, or expectations.
immersion — refers to the feeling of being mentally and emotionally absorbed into a story’s world, engaging our attention, imagination, and emotions to the point where the real world temporarily fades into the background.
logical flow — refers to the invisible thread that connects each scene to the next, each character decision to its consequences, without any inconsistencies that may force an audience to question why events are unfolding as they are.
anticipation — refers to the delightful tension or suspense created when an audience is made aware that something significant is about to happen, causing them to become emotionally invested in what comes next.
believability — refers to the quality that makes a narrative feel true, authentic, and coherent within its own internal logic, while not including any obvious errors or inconsistencies within the story.
engagement — refers to the emotional and mental connection created when an audience is fully immersed in a story and often results in increased empathy and a lasting impact on thoughts, attitudes, or behaviors.
identification — refers to the process by which an audience emotionally connects with a character or perspective within a story, allowing them to see themselves in the character’s experiences, values, or struggles.
sensory details — refers to the vivid descriptions of sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and textures that help create a rich and engaging atmosphere, thus immersing an audience in the narrative.
mental imagery — refers to the process of mentally “seeing” the scenes, “hearing” the dialogue, or “feeling” the emotions described in a narrative, as if they were happening in real life.
narrative quality — refers to how well a story compasses elements like compelling characters, a coherent plot, vivid descriptions, and emotional resonance that draw people in and hold their attention.
engaging dialogue — refers to the artful construction of conversations within a story that reveals characters’ personalities, motivations, and relationships while maintaining authenticity and purpose.
mental simulation — refers to the cognitive process whereby individuals simulate a story’s events, actions, and emotions in order to feel they’re part of the story, thus enhancing understanding and emotional connection.
psychological realism — refers to authentically portraying the inner thoughts, emotions, and motivations of characters, which can foster empathy and engagement and influence beliefs, attitudes, and behaviors.
emotional connection — refers to the bond or resonance a person feels when hearing a story that evokes feelings such as empathy, joy, sadness, or excitement, making the story’s messages or lessons more memorable and impactful.
character development — refers to the process of creating and evolving characters in a story, revealing a character’s traits, motivations, and backstory over the arc of the narrative.
cultural appropriateness — refers to the alignment of a story’s themes, characters, language, and values with the cultural norms, beliefs, and experiences of its intended audience, making it more relatable.

A very consistent finding over a number of studies, across a number of different topics, by a number of different researchers is that transportation leads to greater attitude and belief change. So when people become immersed in these stories, they’re more likely to take the messages of the stories and apply it outward to the real world.
~ Dr. Melanie Green

Why Is Narrative Transportation Relevant?

Dr. Green’s quote explains it rather well, especially the ending. The point of an impactful personal story is to share your experiences, lessons learned, insights, or ideas in a way that fosters understanding, allowing others to take elements of your story and weave them into their story — apply it outward to the real world. The extent to which this happens is related to the extent to which they connect to you and your narrative. Narrative Transportation is how that happens, which is why reviewing the text above can help improve your story’s impact.

This improvement not happens during the writing / editing process, but during your rehearsals. Ideally, you’re able to rehearse your story in front of a trusted friend or family member. That’s when you can solicit feedback. Ask them what feelings arose while hearing your story, or what they were thinking. And if your narrative included descriptive prose, what did the “see”, what mental imagery came to mind?

What Factors Prevent Narrative Transportation?

It’s important to think about how the various aspects of narrative transportation can improve your story, but it’s also vital to consider what might reduce impact. Those factors that limit the positive effects. Here are a few things to consider.

Lack of coherence or clarity — anything in the story that doesn’t make sense?
Lack of realism — does your story depart from reality, or seem false at times?
Errors or inconsistencies — are there any notable mistakes in your narrative?
Confusing narrative structure — are there any disruptions to the story’s flow?
Audience alignment — does your story contradict the audience’s experiences?
Sense of being manipulated — do you come off as having a hidden agenda?

Such situations tend to pull people out of your narrative as they question what you’re saying or why you’re saying it. And as before, this is where feedback from the rehearsal process can identify if any of these issues are present. Ask them if there were times when something you said didn’t make sense, or seemed false in any way. Did it feel as though a certain element could be expanded upon for clarity, or if an important element was missing altogether?

Is There a Downside to Narrative Transportation?

Unfortunately, yes. When engrossed in the narrative world, individuals are less likely to critically evaluate the information presented, making them more open to accepting the story’s perspective. That’s a positive outcome for true stories, but when stories are based on lies — con artists, unscrupulous politicians, and dishonest business leaders, for example — people may be persuaded to adopt beliefs and ideologies that are harmful to themselves, and possibly society as a whole.

History — as well as present times — are full of examples where individuals, organizations, and governments intentionally lie in order to manipulate the thoughts, feels, and actions of the public. We’ll cover that aspect in a future article.

Conclusion

Since our desire is to maximize the impact when sharing our personal stories, reviewing your manuscript from the standpoint of narrative transportation is one way to make that happen!

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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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