I was taking my weekly walk with a buddy last weekend and I told him a story about the first time I watched a show we both enjoyed in our youth. He then told me that this was the third time I’ve told him that story, but he knew I enjoyed sharing it so he liked hearing it.

I’m visiting my parents and I’ve heard a few old stories from them and my sisters, and I’m sure they’ve heard a few repeats from me. It’s interesting the way our old stories define us.

Do we remember fond moments or frustrations? Do we reminisce about family gatherings or family disagreements? Is it acts of kindness or malice that we weave our stories around? Are these stories of joy, laughter, sadness, or scorn?

What do we hold on to? What shapes the memories that matter, and ultimately shapes us? If these memories don’t serve us well, can we change them? Can we redefine these memories? Can we give them less or more power over us?

I believe we can. And if we happen to hear our family or friends share happy stories more than once, hopefully we can have the same grace my buddy had to listen and enjoy (again).