The Braid: Narrative, Embodiment, Economics

A few months ago, I noticed something curious about the people who came to me for support.

They weren’t confused about what they wanted.
They could often articulate it beautifully.

They wanted work that mattered.
They wanted to live more authentically.
They wanted their lives to feel like they belonged to them.

And yet, over and over, I heard some version of the same sentence:

“I understand this in my head… but I can’t seem to live it.”

Sometimes it showed up as burnout.
Sometimes as anxiety.
Sometimes as a quiet grief they couldn’t quite name.
Sometimes as a business or creative project that looked good on paper but felt strangely dead inside.

It wasn’t a lack of insight.
It wasn’t a lack of effort.
And it wasn’t a lack of desire.

It was a mismatch.

What they were trying to live made sense as a story, but their body couldn’t hold it, or their life couldn’t sustain it.

That’s when I began to see the pattern.

If I Were Explaining This to a Friend Over Coffee

I’d probably say something like this:

“Most of us are trying to live a story that only exists in one place.

Sometimes it lives only in our head — who we think we should be, what our life ‘means,’ what we’re aiming for.

Sometimes it lives only in our body — what feels safe, familiar, or regulated, even if it no longer fits who we’re becoming.

And sometimes it lives only in our bank account or calendar — what pays the bills, what’s efficient, what’s expected.

The trouble starts when those three aren’t talking to each other.”

I’ve come to think of it as a braid.

Story, Body, and the World That Answers Back

Story is the meaning we’re living inside.
It’s how we make sense of our past and imagine our future.
It’s the narrative that says, This is who I am. This is what matters. This is where I’m going.

When our story is fractured or borrowed, we feel lost — even if everything looks fine from the outside.

But story alone isn’t enough.

Embodiment is whether our nervous system can actually tolerate living that story.
It’s the difference between wanting a life and being able to stay present inside it.

Our bodies ask very practical questions:
Can I rest here?
Can I breathe here?
Can I be seen here without shutting down?
Can I move toward what matters without abandoning myself?

When the story moves faster than the body, we call it anxiety, burnout, or self-sabotage.
Often, it’s just capacity trying to catch up.

And then there’s the part we’re often taught to leave out of meaningful conversations:

Economics.

Not money as a moral statement — but money, time, energy, exchange.
The simple question of whether a life can support the story we’re trying to live.

Economics is the world’s way of answering back.

It tells us:
This works.
This doesn’t.
This is sustainable.
This needs adjusting.

When we ignore that feedback, we exhaust ourselves in the name of purpose.
When we honor it without story or embodiment, life becomes hollow.

When the Braid Tightens

A life starts to feel aligned when all three strands are in conversation.

The story gives direction.
The body provides capacity.
The world offers feedback.

When they’re braided together, something shifts.

People stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?”
And start asking, “What needs to be brought into relationship?”

This is where story becomes medicine — not because it’s clever or inspiring, but because it’s livable.

A story becomes medicine when:

• the nervous system can hold it

• the body doesn’t have to brace against it

• and the world can receive it without collapse

Anything else is unfinished.

Why This Matters (Quietly, Practically)

Most of the suffering I see isn’t caused by a lack of insight.

It comes from trying to live a story that hasn’t been embodied yet —
or trying to sustain a life that no longer matches the story.

When we slow down enough to bring story, embodiment, and economics into dialogue, something deeply human happens:

We stop forcing our lives to make sense.
And start letting them cohere.