Welcome to Issue 40 of A Good Reputation, a newsletter about how to use storytelling to grow your brand. (Did someone send you? Subscribe here.)

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Hello Reader,

While I’m not sure what a “normal” childhood looks like, I’m pretty sure I didn’t have one.

I was born and raised in Cancun, Mexico, a place not typically associated with raising a family.

It’s a place where families go when looking for somewhere to vacation that doesn’t require you to think too hard. Or where 20-somethings on Spring Break go to take tequila shots out of each other’s belly buttons and make questionable life choices.

But that’s not what made my childhood remarkable. What made it remarkable was a tragedy.

When I was five, my older brother, Daniel, jumped into a pool with a light that had shoddy electrical work done before a party. He didn’t make it out breathing.

My dad, who already struggled with drinking in a place where all business deals are done over cold beers, couldn’t handle the loss of my brother. A year later, he left us, too. My mom said he died of a broken heart.

Before I turned six, I was left without a brother or a dad and a grieving mother who, understandably, needed almost as much caretaking as I did.

So, I did what I needed to do to survive. I put on a brave little face and built myself a protective little shell. I still let people in, but only partially. My nature was always friendly and warm, but I’d only ever let people see so much.

That survival skill got me through childhood and played a significant role in shaping my relationships through early adulthood, particularly the ones involving men.

In college, I dated a few people, but never took anyone too seriously. I always left as soon as I could feel things getting difficult or stale.

When I moved to D.C. for my first job, I continued this pattern. I’d brag about how I had never been dumped because I always cut it off first.

They didn't leave me—I left them. And I was never heartbroken for too long.

I used to tell myself that this was because I was resilient. I could overcome anything and thought of myself as strong because I’d never dwell on the loss or the pain for too long.

But the truth is that I didn’t feel much pain because I never let anyone in close enough to care. Not letting anyone in protected me from the inevitable, unbearable loss that would certainly come.

Eventually, one man convinced me to stay by making it really hard to leave. We were engaged within a year and married shortly after that. And while there were a lot of reasons it worked on the surface, I think the biggest one was buried deep below.

He also couldn't allow anyone to get too close.

A Good Lesson

It was this lack of true intimacy (and very little self-awareness) that ultimately led to our failed marriage. In retrospect, I can see that he suffered from some of the same things I did. We didn’t need each other as much as we needed to feel like we could rely on ourselves.

On the outside, we were a model couple—successful, social, happy, fun and seemingly in love. On the inside, we were both a lonely mess.

The loss I spent my life avoiding came for me in the form of a divorce to a man whom I realized I ended up building an entire life around. A man who gave me two kids and a reason to be in the Bay Area.

After 10 years together, I had to figure out where I was going to live and how I was going to support myself. I had to rebuild my social structure and network and get comfortable with the idea of not seeing my kids every day.

For the first time since I was six, I didn’t feel so brave anymore. I didn’t feel strong or resilient. I just felt the pain.

It was only then, feeling like I had little left to lose, that I finally started to open myself up.

I started to reshape my identity to be someone who is okay with needing people. Someone who didn’t have to wear her courage and bravery and resilience as a badge of honor.

As a result, I opened myself up to more people who could hurt me. To people I could lose. To people I can’t imagine living without now, knowing that one day I probably will.

And that’s okay, because at least I can now say I’ve fully loved and have allowed myself to be loved. I’m connected to the people and things and part of myself that matter most.

A Good Takeaway

The story I was telling myself about who I was—this strong, independent, untouchable woman—was the very thing keeping me from connecting with anyone on a meaningful level. I now realize it was a form of self-protection.

But the irony, of course, is that it didn’t protect me from loss or heartbreak. It protected me from true intimacy and being known. And in doing so, it led me right to the thing I was trying to avoid: loss and loneliness.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe:

The stories we cling to shape our capacity for connection.

And not just in our relationships, but in our work, in our communities, and in how we show up in the world.

For instance, the most common question I get when I teach a workshop on storytelling is this: “I’m an introvert. It’s hard for me to share my story with other people, especially in public.”

To that, I ask, are you protecting your energy or your vulnerability?

Because I don’t think being introverted is the issue. It’s the fear of being judged or ignored after sharing something tender and real.

But what I’ve learned time and time again from showing up more honestly in my relationships and in my work is that when you name who you are, you create space for others to do the same.

Connection doesn’t come from being impressive or brave or strong or perfectly put together. It comes from being honest.

If this resonates, here are some questions to sit with (and maybe even use as your next storytelling prompts):

1. What am I performing? And what would happen if I stopped performing?
2. What part of my identity feels essential but may be armor?
3. What stories am I telling about myself that no longer feel true, but I keep repeating because they’re familiar?
4. How does the version of me I show in my content or brand differ from the one my closest people know?
5. Which version of my story do I tell to gain approval?
6. What do I assume people will judge me for if I’m more visible or vulnerable?
7. Who did I have to become to survive—and is that still who I need to be to thrive?

Telling your honest story serves you beyond marketing your business. It’s a way back to yourself. It’s how you understand who you are and how you let others in enough to truly know you.

I’ve realized that this is why I do this work. I help people unearth the story they’ve been living in, examine the beliefs holding it in place, and reshape it into something more honest, more expansive, and more connective.

When you figure out how to tell your story with clarity and heart, you reach more people and connect more deeply. And that, I believe, is where real impact begins.

A Few Good Resources

1. My bud, Will, inspired this issue with his 3-Act Origin story framework. He's a great follow if you're interested in telling your story on stage.
2. My other buddy, Justin, is doing a LinkedIn challenge to sell without selling your soul. He's a true gem of a human who's an excellent metaphorical storyteller.

Hope you have a good one,
Renee