The Power of Redemption Stories
One of the most powerful things we can do is revisit a story we’ve long told ourselves—and see it differently. Over time, the narratives we carry can start to feel fixed: This is who I am. This is what always happens to me. But with reflection, honesty, and a willingness to look again, we can revise those stories. And when we do, something remarkable happens: we begin to reclaim them.
In an episode of the Hidden Brain podcast—a show that blends psychology and storytelling to help us better understand human behavior—psychologist Jonathan Adler describes two types of life stories. One is the contamination story, where something good turns sour—where hope collapses into shame or fear. The other is the redemptive story, where struggle becomes meaningful, even transformative.
That shift—from contamination to redemption—doesn’t always require a dramatic change in our circumstances. Sometimes, what changes is the lens. When we understand our experiences in a new way, the story itself starts to bend toward hope, toward healing.
The following piece by CJ is a remarkable example of what happens when a long-held story begins to shift. From a childhood panic attack in a paper bag costume to the heartbreakingly real moment she stood up to deliver her mother’s eulogy, CJ brings us into the places where fear lived in her body and mind. But this isn’t a story about fear. It’s a story about courage.
Writing about your life doesn’t just help you remember what happened. It can help you reclaim your voice, your agency, your sense of self. CJ’s story is a powerful reminder of that truth.
Read on to witness her redemptive journey—and the pivotal moment when she fully steps into her voice.
The Girl Who Couldn't Speak
The first panic attack I can remember happened in second grade. I was playing Pamela Popcorn in our school play. I had exactly two lines, but when it was my turn, my throat clenched shut, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. Standing there in my little brown paper bag costume, I froze.
That moment marked the beginning of a relationship with anxiety that would follow me for decades. By the age of eight, I was already hyper-fixating on the possibility of having to speak at my mom's funeral someday. It sounds morbid, but fear doesn't need to make sense to have power. That specific worry embedded itself deep in my mind and stayed there on repeat.
Any time I was in the public eye, my body betrayed me—trembling hands, racing heart, and overwhelming dread as if I faced death rather than just watchful eyes. My first piano recital left my fingers frozen. During my middle school speech, my throat closed up. With each new experience, rather than building confidence, this pattern carved itself deeper.
In high school, I tried to overcome my fear by joining the choir. I thought maybe if I exposed myself enough, the panic would fade. But with each concert, the debilitating panic attacks only became more consistent. Soon, I wasn't just afraid of being seen – I was terrified of having another panic attack. It was a fear feeding on itself.
College was when things got worse. During a class activity where we had to go around the room naming everyone, I had one of my worst attacks. My face contorted involuntarily. My throat closed. I couldn't function. The worst part was that my friend made fun of me afterward. "What was wrong with your face?" she asked, laughing. It was humiliating. I was ashamed. And I thought there was something terribly wrong with me.
I didn't have anyone I could talk to about what was going on. So I chose a major that would ensure I could stay invisible. I literally dreamed of working for the government, in some nameless job hidden in a sea of cubicles where no one would notice me.
After college, I tried Toastmasters to overcome my fear—another attempt that ultimately fell short. Throughout my twenties, the attacks continued to shadow me in the most ordinary moments. Something as simple as raising a glass for a toast at dinner would trigger that familiar wave of panic. My body would shake uncontrollably as if all my fear needed a physical outlet. I hated this disconnect—how my body seemed to have a mind of its own, betraying me when I most needed control.
Eventually, I found my way to a job that allowed me to use my creative gifts while staying safely hidden behind a monitor. But when my first real career required a group presentation, the terror returned. My lips swelled as I broke out in four cold sores just days before the event. I talked my colleagues into letting me do a recording instead of presenting in person.
By my thirties, the panic attacks had become my constant companion, expanding into my dating life. The anxiety intensified dramatically whenever I found myself alone with a man. Every date required careful preparation - a couple of drinks and Xanax just to reach a baseline where normal conversation felt possible. What most people experienced as typical first-date jitters had become for me an overwhelming physical response that needed medication just to manage.
When I met my future husband, my body couldn't get out of fight-or-flight mode. For months, I relied on drinking and medication until my system finally realized I was safe enough to function without them. We eventually got married, but even then, I couldn't face him in bed. I would turn my back to him every night because the intimacy of facing each other was too overwhelming.
In my family, seeking regular treatment for mental health was considered a sign of weakness. Using occasional Xanax for specific situations was one thing, but daily medication? That meant admitting something was fundamentally wrong with me.
I avoided comprehensive treatment until I simply couldn't function anymore. I finally allowed myself to take daily medication for anxiety and depression. I had to accept that I didn't just have anxiety—I had a full-blown panic disorder. Once I started treatment, everything changed in ways I never expected.
I could get in bed with my husband and actually face him. I could ask a question in a group setting without my voice shaking. I could raise a glass in toast without my hand trembling. Most surprisingly, my mind stopped its exhausting pattern of looking for exits in my marriage. That constant voice whispering "you need to escape" in every relationship had finally gone quiet.
For the first time in my life, I experienced genuine calm. I looked forward to getting out of bed. The dense fog finally lifted.
Then my mother passed away.
In that moment, my lifelong fear—the one that had haunted me since I was eight years old—became reality. Speaking at her funeral wasn't just something I needed to do for her; it was the moment I needed to face for myself. This was my chance to finally confront the fear that had shaped so much of my life.
I carved out time to prepare during the week before the funeral, planning to work while my son was at school. But then a snowstorm hit, schools closed, and suddenly, my carefully scheduled preparation time vanished. With my son's special needs requiring constant attention, the space I needed to ready myself emotionally and practically simply disappeared.
So I did my best—that's all I could do. The morning of the funeral, I arranged for a sitter and hired a yoga instructor to help me get fully back into my body. On my drive to the funeral, I asked my lifelong friend Jill to come up to the pulpit with me and keep her hand on my back while I spoke. Then, I gave my eulogy.
People laughed in places I hadn't expected—but it was a good laugh. They cried in all the right places, too. And I kept it together and made it through. I'd go so far as to say I totally nailed it.
I've never been more proud of myself than I was that day—standing at that pulpit, honoring my mother's memory despite the lifetime of fear that had kept me hidden. In that sacred moment, something unexpected happened: I actually enjoyed being up there, speaking from my heart.
What I discovered was both courage—and freedom. The voice I'd always had finally found its moment, and the world was ready to listen. My journey with anxiety isn't over, but now it's become part of my story rather than the force that silenced it.
