The Stories We Tell About Each Other

This past week, I found myself in the middle of two online discussions that couldn't have been more different on the surface, yet revealed something strikingly similar about how we navigate uncertainty and complexity.

The first began when I shared my frustration with the endless cycle of gun violence followed by "thoughts and prayers" without meaningful action. I suggested we needed to look at both mental health support AND gun policy - that the complexity of the issue demands nuanced solutions rather than choosing sides. What followed was a series of responses that left me feeling like I was having three different conversations with people who had already decided who I was based on those few sentences.

The second started when I discovered a jazz singer named Enlly Blue through a music streaming service. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, so I looked her up. What I found intrigued me: virtually no biographical information anywhere, leading some to speculate she might be AI-generated. And you know what? I still enjoyed listening to her music.

These experiences, though completely different, revealed something fundamental about how we relate to uncertainty and each other. When we encounter something we don't fully understand - whether it's a person's political views or a mysterious artist - we have a remarkable tendency to construct complete narratives from minimal information.

In my gun violence discussion, one person decided I was "without God" and blamed me for society's moral decay. Another determined I was "normalizing violence" (I still don't understand that one) and dismissed me as clueless.

With Enlly Blue, people online had created entire backstories and theories about who she was or wasn't, rather than simply sitting with the mystery.

We seem uncomfortable with not knowing. Faced with incomplete information, we fill in the gaps with assumptions that often say more about us than about the person or situation we're trying to understand. This rush to create complete stories costs us something important: the ability to stay curious. When we decide someone is "one of those people" - whether liberal, conservative, godless, naive, real, or artificial - we stop listening for what they're actually saying. We respond to our story about them rather than to them.

In my online exchanges, I watched how nuanced thinking got flattened into familiar categories. My suggestion that gun violence might be complex, requiring attention to multiple contributing factors, became evidence that I fit into predetermined boxes. The possibility that someone could hold both strong faith and support for policy change seemed incomprehensible.

Similarly, the idea that I could appreciate Enlly Blue's music regardless of whether she's human or AI-generated seemed to confuse the narrative some people needed about authenticity and value.

Learning to Rest in Uncertainty

There's something powerful about learning to rest in uncertainty, to say "I don't know" without rushing to fill that space with certainty. When I listen to Enlly Blue, I don't need to know her origin story to be moved by the music. When I engage with complex social issues, I don't need to choose a side to recognize that most challenges require multifaceted responses. This isn't relativism or fence-sitting. It's acknowledging that reality is often more complex than our categories can contain. It's choosing curiosity over certainty, questions over quick judgments.

There's something powerful about learning to rest in uncertainty, to say "I don't know" without rushing to fill that space with certainty.

What if, instead of immediately deciding who someone is based on limited information, we stayed open to learning more? What if we could hold space for complexity rather than forcing everything into familiar narratives?

A Different Kind of Story

The stories we tell about each other matter because they shape how we treat each other. When we construct narratives that reduce others to simple categories, we lose the opportunity for genuine connection and understanding. We miss the chance to discover that the person who disagrees with us might share more common ground than we assumed.

The stories we tell about each other matter because they shape how we treat each other.

But when we choose to hold our stories lightly, when we remain curious about the people we encounter rather than certain about who they are, something different becomes possible. We create space for nuance, for surprise, for the kind of conversations that might actually bridge divides rather than deepen them. This doesn't mean abandoning our values or pretending differences don't matter. It means recognizing that most people, like most issues, contain more complexity than our initial impressions capture. It means staying open to being surprised by each other.

Maybe the goal isn't to figure everyone out or to have complete information before we can appreciate someone or something. Maybe there's wisdom in learning to be comfortable with mystery, with partial knowing, with the acknowledgment that other people remain, fundamentally, other people - not characters in our stories but individuals with their own complex inner lives.

I'm still listening to Enlly Blue's music, still moved by her voice whether she's human or AI. And I'm still believing that complex problems require complex solutions, even when that makes some people uncomfortable.

The stories we tell about each other have the power to separate or connect us. When we choose curiosity over certainty, when we allow space for complexity and mystery, we open doors to understanding that our quick judgments would keep firmly closed.

What stories have you been telling about the people you encounter? And what might happen if you held those stories a little more lightly??