Storytelling with Impact

Alexis Barton realizes that nothing good happens after 2 AM – Live at The Moth

November 1, 2025/in Comedy, Humor, Personal Stories, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

Personal stories don’t have to be extraordinary or sensational to have impact. They can just as easily be what I think of as everyday profound. On one level, they’re simple tales from life, but under the surface there’s a deeper meaning. Often a realization of some kind or an aha moment. And when there’s a funny thread running through your narrative, all the better. Alexis Barton’s story told at The Moth is a prime example of storytelling that I call humor with heart.

Most love stories end with a white dress. Mine begins with one.

While her story is unique, many of us have been in relationships that could have become long lasting, but over time they faded away, and in the end, we realized it was for the best. And that’s a factor to consider when crafting your own story. Think about what makes your story different, all yours, and how the theme can connect to a broad audience?

The fact that Quinton already had a girlfriend, that was just a poetic obstacle that I had to overcome.

What became evident to me while listening to Alexis’ story was her mastery of language and humor. Consider her use of the phrase poetic obstacle and the word situationship. This is difficult for most storytellers to pull off unless they happen to be a professional writer, which she reveals at the end. That said, I invite you to try your hand at crafting a unique phrase or novel hybrid word.

Notice the early hints she offers as to her background and style with mention of “Southern girls love bows”, and “Southern girls love hair ribbons”. On their own, they provide the audience with a sense of how she looks, but they also serve as a bit of foreshadowing when she later says, “I’m Sandra Dee in my little ponytail and hair ribbon.” It’s a clever callback, taking us from the general to the specific.

I also appreciated the way in which she compared herself to her quasi-boyfriend and his date when they all crossed paths in Walmart at 2am. Rather than saying “they were obviously together” and “I was obviously alone”, she refers to the fact that, “they had couple snacks…and I had single-girl food”. While either approach works, the former is simply stating a fact, while her word choice connects to the audience in a common way, as we’ve all been shopping and noticed what was in someone else’s shopping cart.

Transcript

Most love stories end with a white dress. Mine begins with one. The white dress I wore for my high school graduation was above the knee and chic, backless, and it had a sweet little bow at the back because Southern girls love bows.

And when I wore it to my graduation, I had no idea that it might serve a second purpose as a wedding dress, or more accurately, a dress to elope in.

But about two and a half years later, I was a college student at UAB, and I was, “Go Blazers!” I was dangerously in love with an upperclassman who lived two floors above me in the dorm, and we’ll call him Quinton.

Quinton was gorgeous. Every girl on campus wanted Quinton. But he wanted me. The fact that Quinton already had a girlfriend, that was just a poetic obstacle that I had to overcome. And I did.

Quinton and I sealed our “situationship” with a kiss under a streetlight in the rain, and it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.

Now, we didn’t actually go out; we sofa-sat. That’s what you did before Netflix and chill. And we talked about all kinds of things and eventually the talk turned to marriage. Now, between us, we had one job, and both of us were still on our parents’ health insurance, and so this seemed like a fantastic idea. And we didn’t want to burden our parents with paying for a wedding, so we thought, we’ll cut class, like the scholars we were, and run down to Jefferson County and elope. And I already had the perfect dress in my closet at home, so I snuck home to Bruton, Alabama, and grabbed my high school dress and snuck it back.

Now, we chickened out. We didn’t actually elope. The day came and went and I just couldn’t do it and he couldn’t either. And we were all right with that. We continued to see each other and we were happy. And, uh, one night when we weren’t sofa-sitting, I went to Walmart with my roommate at 2 AM. As one does. That’s the perfect time to go to Walmart. It’s the witching hour, like going to Waffle House at the same hour. And as one does, we were wearing what most people are wearing at 2 AM—pajamas.

I had on a matching pastel kind of top and bottom with a little Peter Pan collar and white Keds, and I had a ponytail and I had a hair ribbon because Southern girls love hair ribbons. And we went down to Walmart on Lakeshore. And we were going to get some snacks. And, uh, we went all over the store, and we got chips and dip and Coke and Lean Cuisine and Crystal Light. And we made our way to the frozen food aisle because we needed ice cream. And if you’ve been in that Walmart, you know how wide and long that aisle is.

And so we are on the Blue Bell end, because I’m a Blue Bell girl. And we are looking at the options. And at the other end, the opposite end of the aisle, there is a couple coming toward us. And I’m severely nearsighted, so I can only really see y’all. I can’t see what’s happening at the back. And so we’re making our way down, India, my roommate, and I. And the couple at the opposite end is slowly coming toward us. And the closer they come to us, I realize it’s Quinton. And he’s on a date. And the girl was cute. She had on her going-out top. And if you know what I mean by that. Uh, she had on some cute jeans and some cute shoes and her hair and makeup was flawless. And look at me. I’m Sandra Dee in my little ponytail and hair ribbon.

And I took it all in as they walked past me. And I looked in their buggy and they had couple snacks. They had chocolate-covered Oreos. They had strawberries. They had wine. They had cubed cheese and olives. And it was obvious that they were together. Mind you, he had never taken me out. And I had single-girl food in my buggy. I had Lean Cuisine and Crystal Light. And I realized then that I was a single woman and I had had no clue all along. And we kept moving, we never broke stride. We get to the end of the aisle and I ask India, “Did I see what I thought I saw?” And I was hoping she would say no, but she’s not that type of person. She said, “Yeah, girl, you saw it. Everybody saw it in Walmart.” And, uh, she took me home. And this is—this is the point where I’d like to say I gathered my dignity, but I didn’t. I called another friend to pick me up, and we shot out for his house. Because it was his term to face uncomfortable truths at an inconvenient time in front of an audience—his neighbors. And I let him have it. And I realized in the moment how afraid he was of me when I popped out of the shadows, and I realized, you know, girl, this is over. And so I left.

This story has a happy ending. Two happy endings, because Quinton married that girl, and they have a beautiful family. And I lived to tell this story here tonight, so we both won. And if there are any lessons from this, and there are three that I have—it has taken me several years to come to. It is: nothing good happens after 2 AM, just like your mother said. Never double-cross a writer because you will become material. And three: always wear your cute outfit when you go out, because you never know who you’re gonna see in Walmart.

Thank you.

Back to you…

What stood out to you? At what points did you connect to her story? Especially if there was a passage that described something you’ve never experienced, but it resonated with you at a higher level.

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If you’re ready to craft your own personal story, these resources will help make it more impactful!
Storytelling in Three Steps
Ten Fundamental Story Blocks
The Essential Literary Elements

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Mike Sella goes skydiving with his daughter – at The Moth in San Francisco

October 23, 2025/in Family, Humor, Life Lessons, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

Have you ever found yourself in a situation that forced you to face your fears? And there was really no way out? Most likely you have, and such life events can become the basis for personal stories that others can connect to. Even if those hearing your story haven’t had the same experience as you, they can relate to the common emotions that such situations evoke.

Delivered at The Moth in San Francisco, Mike Sella shares a story about the time went skydiving for his daughter’s birthday, despite his fear of heights. From the setup to exiting the plane, we’re with him for the journey, and it’s a fun ride.

And this is where I really start to flip out.
I mean, there was a leg dangling.

Let’s take a look at how Mike structured his story to connect with the audience, create tension, and deliver a comedic punchline that beautifully brings us full circle.

Rather than starting with the terrifying prospect of jumping out of a plane, he takes us to a familiar, low-stakes setting: Disneyland. In doing so, he establishes three critical elements. First, he’s a loving, fun dad. Second, he has a signature shtick — faking a bored yawn for the on-ride roller coaster camera. And third, his daughter Parker wants to go skydiving, a prospect that clashes with his self-professed “big fear of heights.”

His exaggerated yawn, which is basically an inside joke with his daughter, seems like a minor act, but it’s something that we subconsciously file away. Eventually we see that it’s the key to the entire story, but in the beginning, he’s planting a narrative seed. It’s a classic use of foreshadowing that enriches the overall story.

And as I’m masterminding my escape, Stefan says, “It’s go time!”

Describing himself as the “luggage of someone who is skydiving” is a perfect visual metaphor, as it highlights his complete lack of agency. Something we all fear. The anxiety goes up a notch with his comments about the “casually dangling” leg of another skydiver, as well as the plane taking off without the door closed. We feel his sense of panic, but the tone is still humorous, and we’re enjoying the journey.

When his daughter disappears from the plane, Mike realizes it’s a point of no return, and his motivation shifts from fear of jumping to the primal fear of losing his child, which gives him the push he needs.

As he’s plummeting to Earth, and the audience is plummeting with him, the instructor gestures for him to smile for the camera. But instead of smiling, Mike executes his signature move: the exaggerated yawn.

I spent 20 years trying to convince her not to run with scissors. And now she has literally tumbled out of an airplane in front of me.

The seed planted in the story’s opening minutes blooms into a moment of sublime comedic triumph. This callback elevates the story from a simple anecdote to a perfectly crafted piece of storytelling.

And it’s not just a funny scene; it’s also a character-defining moment. In the face of intense fear, Mike holds on to a key piece of his identity — the funny, shtick-loving dad.

Listen to his story a second time while reading the transcript. Notice how he creates scenes we can easily see ourselves in, and how his vulnerability serves both the tension and the humor. The callback is classic and really ties a bow on the story. Think about your own experiences that were challenging, yet provided an opportunity for growth. We’ve all had them, and in most cases, funny moments were a part of the journey.

Transcript

A few years ago, my daughter was home for the summer from college, and we decided to go to Disneyland for a few days where we did a few things that really brought me joy. One, a bunch of the roller coasters there have cameras that take a picture at the scariest moment.

And my shtick that I’ve done for years is that I like to do a big exaggerated yawn right when they take the picture. So you see them and everyone looks really scared, and there I am in the middle just aggressively bored. And Parker did it with me, which really pleased me very much.

And I learned about her. I learned that one of the things on her bucket list is that she wants to go skydiving one day. And I thought, wow, that makes one of us, weirdo. Because I have a big fear of heights. I’m uncomfortable on a ladder, let alone walking off of an airplane voluntarily. But I took this thought and I stored it away.

And a few days later, I’m chatting with my wife, and somehow the words that came out of my mouth were, “We should all go skydiving for Parker’s birthday,” when what I was thinking was, “I will get out of this somehow.” But her birthday was months away, and I thought this is a problem for Future Mike. And I pushed all my fear down into my bowels.

A few months later, Future Mike wakes up and it’s skydiving day. And I’m Future Mike. And my bowels are very unhappy. But I drive us to the Watsonville Airport and we check in for our skydiving appointment. And there’s a bunch of forms to fill out that very specifically list all the different types of death and dismemberment that you promise not to sue them for.

And then we meet our skydiving partners because when you go skydiving for the first time, you don’t do that by yourself. You don’t even get a parachute. Your skydiving instructor puts a parachute on their back, and they strap you to their front like a big Baby Bjorn. So it’s not like you’re really skydiving, you’re just the luggage of someone who is skydiving.

And we meet our instructors and they’re very chill dudes. Mine is named Stefan. He’s like one part snowboarding instructor, one part Top Gun, and like two parts sunglasses. And we go through the training, which is just like explaining how to be good, polite luggage.

And then they take us out to the runway to see the group in front of us, and a small plane pulls up and two instructors and two skydivers get in the back. And the plane starts to taxi away, and they don’t even bother closing the door. One dude’s leg is just casually dangling out the door.

And this is where I really start to flip out. I mean, there was a leg dangling. I’ve been in airplanes, and normally when my airplanes taxi, I’m not even allowed to have my tray table down, let alone part of me hanging out of the airplane. So I turned to Parker and my wife and I say, “Hey, how are you guys feeling?” And they’re fine. They’re happy, they’re excited, like psychopaths.

And so our plane pulls up next and two instructors get in, and then Parker and I get in, sort of, you know, with our backs to them. We scoop between their legs, like we’re the little spoons. And the plane starts to taxi and it takes off, and I realize that I’m not strapped to Stefan yet. And I ask him in my calmest and most high-pitched voice, I say, “Hey, hey Stefan, don’t you think you should just strap us together?” And Stefan is chill. He says not to worry. I am not chill. I am very worried.

And I’m going through in my head how I’m going to get out of this. I signed a lot of forms. Maybe I gave up the right to do this. I don’t know, maybe luggage doesn’t even have rights. If I don’t do this, will my daughter be disappointed in me? Or am I just going to let peer pressure make me jump out of an airplane?

And as I’m masterminding my escape, Stefan says, “It’s go time!” because that’s how he talks. And Parker’s due to go first. So I see her and her instructor inch towards the door, and it’s surreal. And the door opens, and they’re gone. My daughter, my only child has fallen out of an airplane. I spent 20 years trying to convince her not to run with scissors. And now she has literally tumbled out of an airplane in front of me. And suddenly I am very motivated to skydive.

And so Stefan and I, he sort of scooches and I sort of Samsonite my way over to the door. And then my leg is dangling out that open door. And Stefan pushes us out. And we are tumbling and it is windy and it is noisy and it is terrifying. And we are free-falling for like 30 seconds or a week or something.

And Stefan pulls the parachute ripcord. And he’s also doing his other job which is to video record the whole thing. Like I’m ever going to watch this worst day of my life again. And he gestures to me to smile for the camera, and I look up at the camera and I go… [mimes a huge yawn].

Am I proud of myself for facing my fears and supporting my daughter and skydiving with her? Yeah, sure, whatever, a little bit. But am I really pleased with myself for making that stupid gag while plummeting to earth? Oh my God, yes, so much. That is my favorite. But the next few years for Parker’s birthday, we just sheltered in place and that was way better.

Thank you.

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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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Ryan Roe at The Moth in Philadelphia

June 4, 2025/in Family, Humor, Life Lessons, Music, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

All too often I will hear people say their personal stories aren’t good enough to share. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing very shocking. Nothing that other people would care much about. But some of the best stories are those with a simple narrative, but that also contain great meaning.

Such are the stories that recall childhood memories — those special times spent with family members. In this case, Ryan Roe’s story at The Moth takes us back to the time when he was learning to play the trombone. The story which unfolds is, at first, one of discomfort, but it turns into a father-son bonding experience that Ryan holds onto throughout life.

It’s heartfelt, as you’ll come to find out when you watch Ryan on stage, but it’s also filled with many funny moments. Listen to how he uses the technique of self-deprecating humor that also serves to enhance the visual experience.

You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday.

Without that humor his story would still be meaningful, but it wouldn’t have connected to the audience in the same way. It involves an effort to be near someone we like (we’ve all done that) and also being put into a potentially embarrassing situation (who hasn’t been there), so we’re rooting for Ryan.

Transcript

When I was in fourth grade, that’s when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band. And I chose the trombone for two reasons.

The first one was that there’s this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone. And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together. Now, the reason I didn’t just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.

And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player. For many years, he played in the Marine Corps Band, and he traveled around the country playing with them. He was based in New Orleans, and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there. And then after that, he became an instrument repairman.

So, a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house, playing his favorite songs. And I just loved the sound of the trombone. So I felt like if I played trombone, that would make him proud.

Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina. And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher, and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible. The noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.

And, you know, it’s a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth-grade arms, and you can’t even reach far enough to hit a C note. And what’s more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of valves and reeds and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.

But when it’s just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it’s 100% your fault. I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, “This thing’s busted.” And he’s like, “Here’s the thing, no, it’s not.”

But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible. So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself. Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit. Up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.

But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone, and she goes, “Wait. Would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?” And he’s like, “I don’t know, this is their thing. I don’t want to take anything away from it.” And she’s like, “Please. Will you play in the winter concert?”

So he accepts and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it. And I had to be like, “That’s awesome, Dad. I’m excited too.”

Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend into the background. I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.

But the concert comes around and we’re holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria. It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains as if they’re trying to make the students think, “Will there be dinner and a show?” Who knows.

And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs. Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready. You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And the drummers, they were lucky. They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan who had a triangle because he wasn’t really to be trusted.

And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted. Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.

And we begin playing the first song and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest. I’m playing quietly because I don’t want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone. My dad is playing quietly because he doesn’t want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds. We’re both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her baton at us and mouthing, “Get louder! Now!”

But we get through the Blue Danube. The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better. And by the time we get to the Funeral March, I can finally relax. But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. And you guys know it, it’s a very soft and slow song. It’s a bit easier to play on an instrument.

And as I’m playing, I start to listen to my dad playing next to me. And I’m hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next. And then I look out into the crowd and I can see everyone else’s dad sitting there. And then I look over at my dad, and he’s smiling because he’s having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.

And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad. I finally felt like this is a really special thing, I should cherish it.

And he ended up playing in every concert we did for the next five years. We had zero new trombone players every year for five years. So we just kept inviting him back. And it was awesome. I loved it. Every single time. I was never embarrassed about it, I always looked forward to it, and it was always a special moment.

So much so that when I got to high school and there were some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player, so he didn’t need to play with us anymore. And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn’t as fun anymore. Something felt missing. So I moved on.

Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the South and I stopped for a day in New Orleans. And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans and the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, “This was my dad’s home when he was my age.”

And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall. And it’s a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland jazz. And they sat me right next to the trombone player. And I’m having a great time listening to these guys, they’re so talented.

And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a five-dollar bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.

And as I’m listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next, I become overwhelmed with emotion because I was being transformed back into being fourth-grade Ryan. And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.

And so when I got back home, I went to my parents’ house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago. And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time. So every now and then, my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we’ll go up to the attic and we’ll break out our trombones.

And I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell. And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds. And when I begin playing, I’m immediately reminded of how terrible I am. But he hits every note perfectly, and that’s the fun part for me.

Thank you.

Now back to you…

Take a moment to think about similar experiences from your youth — from your childhood, to adolescence, to your teenage years. Is there some event (or series of events) that defined your relationship to one or both of your parents? Music, sports, nature, travel, food, etc.

Consider the sweet aspects, the humorous ones, as well as the meaningful ones. What memories have you carried with you throughout your life? As you recall an event, try to go deeper. What did it feel like, sound like, look like? As adults, we’ll too often push those memories into a corner, when the truth is, they are often well worth revisiting and sharing.

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Muneesh Jain Storytelling at The Moth in Traverse City

May 19, 2025/in Career, Emotions, Family, Identity, Relationships, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

You may remember Peter Aguero’s Moth story of how the simple suggestion of taking a pottery class altered his outlook on life. Different circumstances in this case, but Muneesh Jain’s Moth story told in Traverse City also happens to hinge on a moment in time that revised the trajectory his life was on.

But there’s always a backstory to such moments, and Muneesh talks about his parent’s expectations that he could never meet, no matter how hard he tried.

My parents are from India. So, in our house, that meant we had a high bar set for academic achievement, and a specific type of professional success: doctor, lawyer, engineer.

And he did try, to the point that his heath was at risk. But walking away from success resulted in his disconnecting from his family, as well as society itself. Rather than a short brief, Muneesh was out of sorts for five full years.

The delivery guy would just leave the food outside my apartment because I couldn’t even make eye contact with him. I was a failure.

And then… Something unexpected happens. Something that reignites is passion, and a lifelong dream. The journey he embarks upon connects him to new people in ways he couldn’t predict, and the process seems to resurrect him. (no spoilers here — you’ll have to hear his story to learn the details of his journey)

As these articles are fueled by java, you can always…

And I realized we weren’t really even talking about baseball anymore. We were talking about family connection.

While staying with friends in Seattle, a scene unfolds we can’t possibly expect.

The next day, I hear a knock at the door. Nobody’s home, so I walk upstairs and through the glass door, I see the silhouette of a 4 foot 10, 90 pound little woman. I open the door and just say, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

As the saying goes, “It’s never too late.” For Muneesh, the subtext is that it wasn’t too late to reconnect to his mother, and in doing so, come to understand her in a way that wasn’t possible while growing up.

Transcript

My parents are from India. So, in our house, that meant we had a high bar set for academic achievement, and a specific type of professional success: doctor, lawyer, engineer. By the time my sister was 12, she knew she was going to be a doctor, just like my dad.

When I was nine, I called a family meeting to let everyone know I was never going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. I was going to be a gymnast. My parents, they tolerated it, but told me that one day I was going to have to grow out of it. But I went to the gym six days a week, five hours a night. And by the time I was a teenager, I was training for the Olympics. Then multiple injuries ended my career. My folks, they said, “Alright, you got that out of your system. Now it’s time to focus on your education.”

I needed them to be impressed with me, the way they were my sister. I just, I couldn’t wrap my head around doing it their way. So I came up with a bigger idea. When I was 19, I got a job with ESPN. I was producing live segments for Sportscenter, ESPN news, hanging out with my sports idols. My folks, they kept reminding me, “Don’t let this get in the way of your schoolwork.”

Alright, fine. If that wasn’t good enough, I came up with a bigger idea. I left the network and moved to Detroit, Michigan, a city that I love, and I started a sports magazine. I sold ads, I found distributors, I built a staff with grown-ass people who had kids older than me. And we were killing it. We were up to 50,000 subscribers. People were recognizing me on the street. Hell, Muhammad Ali said he liked my magazine.

But every time I’d see my parents, they’d just ask me, “When are you going back to college? Get that degree.”

This time, there was no bigger idea. I had to make this work. I doubled down, worked twice as hard, which also meant that I pretty much stopped sleeping entirely and started drinking and drugging the nights away to manage my stress levels. And when I was 24, my doctor told me that I was six months away from a heart attack.

I either had to get rid of the magazine or die. So I gave up. And something broke inside of me. And I couldn’t face my parents. I took the money I’d saved from ESPN and the magazine, and I ran away. I moved to New York into a tiny 160-square-foot studio apartment where the windows didn’t even open, and it was there that my self-imposed exile began. Slowly losing contact with every human I’d ever met.

The delivery guy would just leave the food outside my apartment because I couldn’t even make eye contact with him. I was a failure.

My parents would call and I never knew what to say. My dad would lecture me that I wasn’t even a part of the family anymore. My mom would yell at me that I needed to get my life together. And every conversation just ended in tears. So I stopped answering their calls. Then they started sending me money to keep me alive, and I took it, and that made me hate myself so much more. And so I just stopped leaving my apartment entirely.

The TV would be on 24 hours a day. I wasn’t watching at all. I just needed flashing images and noise to block out the constant stream of shame, regret, self-loathing that was clanging around the inside of my skull.

And that became my life. Every day, all day, living in near isolation for five years.

One day, a baseball game just happened to be on. Now, I hadn’t watched a sporting event of any kind since the death of my magazine. It was always just too hard. But on this day, I was so broken, I just stared motionlessly at the screen in front of me. And within a couple of innings, something strange was happening. I felt myself sitting up in my bed, engaging with something outside of my own head. I was smiling. I mean, actually smiling, for the first time in five years.

By the time the game ended, I’d already ordered the MLB TV package and just started mainlining baseball. I was watching every game, reading every article, going back over the last five years to see everything that I’d missed. And in the middle of it all, I remembered a dream I had when I was six.

You know, “One day, I’m gonna see a baseball game at all 30 MLB stadiums.” It’s one of those silly things that a lot of baseball fans want to do, but few actually get a chance to do it. And the ones who do it, do it over the course of a lifetime, like a normal human person.

But in this moment, nobody even knew that I existed. I could disappear off the planet and no one would notice. So I said, “Screw it. I’m going to do it. And I’m gonna do it in one season.” I’m going to drive 17,000 miles in 95 days and go to a baseball game at all 30 ballparks. I started obsessively poring over maps and schedules, planning out my route.

Every time I’d go down to the bodega to buy another pack of cigarettes, instead, I would take that money out of the ATM, go back up to my apartment, shove it underneath my mattress. By the time the next baseball season came around, I’d saved $6,000 and quit smoking.

I was ready to go. I called my parents to let them know what I was doing, and they really didn’t know what to say. They were just happy that I was alive. And I hit the road. Every 48 hours I was in a new city. But I didn’t want to just sit in the ballpark alone. I needed a way to reintegrate myself into society. The problem was, I had completely forgotten how to even have a conversation with somebody else.

So I invented a podcast. I couldn’t have cared less if anybody actually listened to this thing. I just needed an excuse to go talk to strangers. And it was working. People were talking to me about the stats of their favorite ball players, the histories of their ballparks. One kid at Citi Field at a Mets game spent 20 minutes meticulously breaking down why it was that the Yankees sucked.

And I bounced from ballpark to ballpark. I noticed that my conversations, they were evolving. I talked to a father and son in Baltimore, where after our official interview, the father pulled me aside to quietly confide in me that he didn’t really have a relationship with his eldest son, but his youngest, his youngest loved baseball, so he knew that at least they’d be able to talk about that.

I talked to a mother and daughter in San Francisco who had been going to games together for 20 years. Three generations of women in Texas. The grandmother proudly shoving Little Laney, her nine-year-old granddaughter, in front of my microphone, saying, “Little Laney, tell the nice man what you do all your school reports on.” And Little Laney excitedly screams out, “The Texas Rangers!”

And I realized we weren’t really even talking about baseball anymore. We were talking about family connection.

By the time I got to LA, I’d already driven 8,000 miles on my own. I was halfway done with my tour. But this was my hell week, because the Angels and the Dodgers rarely play at home at the same time. I had to catch a game in Anaheim, drive 17 hours up to Seattle, turn back around, drive 17 hours back to LA, then 30 hours to Minnesota. That’s 4,000 miles in 10 days. But I was a man possessed, nothing was going to stop me.

After my Angels game, I hopped in the car and headed up north. But about halfway into the drive, my vision starts to get blurry and my body starts to uncontrollably shake. I pull over just in time to open the door and projectile vomit all over the side of the highway. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my dad. He just sighed into the phone and said, “You have food poisoning.” What am I supposed to do from here? “Gatorade and Pepto Bismol.”

My mom gets on the phone and starts screaming at me. This is ridiculous. You need to take better care of yourself and I hung up. I wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. I made it to Seattle in time for my game by double fisting Gatorade and Pepto Bismol. I was staying with some family friends so I knew they’d be able to take care of me.

The next day, I hear a knock at the door. Nobody’s home, so I walk upstairs and through the glass door, I see the silhouette of a 4 foot 10, 90 pound little woman. I open the door and just say, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

And she says, “I’m here to help you drive.” Now, she must have seen the panic on my face, because she followed that up with, “And I’ve been listening to your podcast. I know you don’t take bathroom or food breaks when you’re on the road, so I’m not going to take any breaks either. We’re going to stay on your schedule.” I didn’t know she was listening to the podcast.

And then she said one more thing. “I’m driving the whole way, so you’ve got two options. You sit next to me and you can sleep or we can talk.” Now, I honestly can’t remember the last time my mom and I had been in the same room together without it devolving into tears. So I said, “Okay, Mama.” I got in the car and I immediately went to sleep.

I slept the entire way to LA and when we got there, she said, “I’m not going to go to the baseball game with you.” I said, “Why not?” She said, “Because you’ve got work to do. And if people see you there with your mother, they’re not going to want to talk to you.” I said, “You’re being ridiculous, of course you’re going to come,” and I got her a ticket.

We’re at Dodger Stadium and I start interviewing the gentleman sitting next to me as I’d done at every ballpark before. My mom, she moves to the seat behind us to give us some space to chat. And after the interview is over, I can hear her talking to her new seatmate. And her new seatmate’s asking, “Wow, you must be a huge baseball fan to do this type of road trip.” And my mom just answers, “No. I really don’t like baseball. I like watching my son watch baseball.” I pretended like I didn’t hear that.

After the game was over, we’re walking back to the car and she stops me. She wants to show me a picture she had taken during the game. And I looked down on her phone and it’s actually, it’s a picture of me and the guy that I had been interviewing. And she just says, “Look. You’re smiling.”

I said, “When are you going home, Mama?” And she said, “No, no, no, no. I’m going to drive with you to Minnesota too.” This time, there was no panic on my face. I said, “Okay, we’re going to split the drive and let’s talk.”

As we made our way out east, I started talking to my mom the way that I had been talking to these strangers at the ballpark these last couple of months, asking her stories about her life. You know, this woman, she survived three wars between India and Pakistan. I didn’t know that.

She told me the story of how her and my dad’s arranged marriage came to be. I knew they were arranged, I just never knew how or why it happened. I don’t know why I never bothered to ask her that.

Right before we got to Minnesota, we made a quick pit stop in South Dakota at Mount Rushmore. And as we’re walking up to the monument, my mom peeled off to call my dad and I was eavesdropping and I could hear her say, “As immigrants to this country, we’d always wanted to see Mount Rushmore. We just never found a reason to make the trip. This is all so exciting. I can’t wait for you to be able to see… our son… is just so happy.”

Thank you.

Back to you…

As unique as the details of Muneesh’s story are, the themes are all too common. Expectations. Failure. Shame. And also being open to those times when a simple circumstance serves as inspiration to reclaim the life that’s been waiting for you. Yes, the first few steps require initiative, but success manifests when others are influential elements in your narrative.

If you have a story to tell of getting lost, then finding yourself, don’t forget the cast of characters that accompanied you on the road to recovery. With them, you would still be lost.

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Learn more about the coaching process or
contact me to discuss your storytelling goals!

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