The Stone

I want to tell you a story.

Imagine I place a stone in your hand.

Nothing remarkable.

It isn't polished or precious. It hasn't been appraised. Nobody has placed it behind glass.

It's just a stone.

Then I ask you what it's worth.

You might shrug.

But what if I told you your daughter found it on the beach and pressed it into your hand when she was four?

Or your father carried it in his pocket for thirty years?

Or you picked it up on a walk during the hardest year of your life and, for reasons you can't quite explain, kept it?

Suddenly, the answer changes.

But the stone hasn't.

The story has.

We Do This to Ourselves

We collect stories about our value, too.

I'm successful.

I'm smart.

I'm useful.

I'm a good leader.

I'm dependable.

I'm strong.

I'm accomplished.

I'm the one who gets shit done.

These stories aren't necessarily bad.

Many are true.

But somewhere along the way, we can begin confusing the things that give our lives meaning with the things that give us worth.

Those aren't the same thing.

And that distinction matters.

Because stories change.

When the Story Changes

Jobs disappear.

Relationships end.

Businesses fail.

Children grow up.

Bodies change.

Capacity changes.

People stop needing us in the ways they once did.

Sometimes we simply become someone different.

And when our worth has become entangled with one of those stories, change doesn't just feel like change.

It feels like a threat to who we are.

If I'm worthy because I'm successful, failure becomes terrifying.

If I'm worthy because I'm useful, needing help feels shameful.

If I'm worthy because I'm strong, vulnerability becomes dangerous.

If I'm worthy because I'm needed, someone else's independence can feel strangely like rejection.

This is borrowed worth in disguise.

And it's incredibly human.

The Story Isn't the Stone

Here's the distinction I've been sitting with:

The story can change what the stone means to you.

It cannot change what the stone is.

Maybe the same is true of us.

Our experiences matter.

Our accomplishments matter.

Our relationships matter.

Our contribution matters.

They give our lives richness and texture and meaning.

But they don't manufacture the human being underneath them.

Before the title, there was you.

Before the achievement, there was you.

Before anyone applauded, approved, hired, promoted, loved, followed, needed, or depended on you...

There was you.

And you were already worthy.

A Small Practice

So I'm giving you an unusually literal assignment this week.

Find a stone.

Pick one up on your next walk.

Take one from the garden.

Find one on the beach.

It doesn't need to be beautiful.

In fact, I'd prefer it wasn't.

Put it somewhere you'll encounter it regularly.

On your desk.

Beside your bed.

In your pocket.

And when you notice yourself proving, performing, comparing, or questioning whether you're enough, touch the stone.

Then remember:

The story may change.

The worth does not.

Maybe that's what remembering our worth actually looks like.

Not some enormous breakthrough.

Not another thing to achieve.

Just small moments when we catch ourselves forgetting—and return.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until next week,

Stay feisty. Stay human.

Amber

Download Chapter Eleven of The Feisty Human and continue the conversation.

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