Good Luck, Bad Luck: The Stories We Tell (and the Freedom of Letting Them Go)

“We’re blind to our blindness. We have very little idea of how little we know.” — Daniel Kahneman, Nobel Prize winner and author of Thinking Fast, Thinking Slow

It was a Tuesday morning, the kind where the coffee is still warm and the mind is already racing ahead. A friend sat across from me, shoulders tight, eyes tired.

“She didn’t respond to my message,” she said. “I know she’s upset with me.”

I asked, “What do you actually know?”

She paused. “Well… I sent a message yesterday.”

“And?”

“No response.”

We sat there together. I was hoping we were able to notice the difference in the facts we knew and the conclusions we were jumping to.

Fact: I sent a message yesterday.

Fact: I have not received a reply.

Everything else? A story.

Daniel Kahneman, the Nobel Prize–winning psychologist, reminds us that the mind is not just a processor of facts—it is, as he says, a storytelling machine. We take a few scattered details—tiny fragments out of the billions available to us—and we weave them into a narrative that feels as solid as truth. But it is often not truth. It is interpretation which we're quite sure of. And the trouble is, we don’t know we’re doing it.

Kahneman also wrote, “We are prone to overestimate how much we understand about the world.... In other words, we fill in the gaps. Quickly. Confidently. Sometimes painfully.

I have done this more times than I care to admit.

A look becomes disapproval. A delay becomes rejection. A short answer becomes lack of care.

We suffer, not from what is, but from what we tell ourselves is.

For a while I worked with a few organizations. The first part of the work was helping people see the difference between fact and interpretation. These were intelligent people, but they had the hardest time separating out fact from the stories they were telling themselves.

Here are a few simple examples that reveal just how easily we slide from fact into story:

Fact: My boss gave me 10 minutes of feedback. Story: She’s unhappy with me. I’m probably failing.

Fact: The meeting ended 10 minutes before 5:00. Story: People didn’t value the discussion.

Fact: My husband was quiet during dinner. Story: He’s upset with me.

Fact: My friend walked past me without waving. Story: She’s ignoring me.

Fact: I forgot a name in conversation. Story: My memory is failing. This is the beginning of decline.

It is astonishing, really, how fast the brain moves. Kahneman would call this “System 1”—fast, automatic, emotional. It jumps to conclusions, fills in blanks, creates coherence. It is efficient. It is also often wrong.

And yet, we trust it.

Byron Katie’s work has been a gentle but firm companion to me in this. She offers a simple practice called “The Work,” which invites us to question the stories we believe.

She asks four disarming questions:

Is it true? Can you absolutely know it’s true? How do you react when you believe that thought? Who would you be without the thought?

And then, the surprising part—the turnaround.

“My friend is ignoring me” becomes.“ I am ignoring my friend.” “I am ignoring myself.”

Sometimes the turnaround doesn’t fit neatly. But often, it opens a window. It loosens the grip of certainty. It reminds us that our story is not the only story.

I once watched this unfold in a workplace. A team insisted that one employee “didn’t care about her job.” That was the story.

When pressed for facts, they said: “She was late four times this month.”

That was it. That was the evidence.

When they approached her—not with accusation, but with observation—they discovered something else entirely. Her husband had left. Mornings were a scramble of grief and childcare. What looked like indifference was actually overwhelm and confusion.

The story shifted. Compassion entered. Solutions followed. And the employee, feeling seen rather than judged, became more engaged than ever.

Stories can destroy relationships and make us kinda crazy. Byron Katie who invented the 4 questions was suicidal, deeply depressed until she woke up to the stories she was telling herself.

We were talking about this in tonight's compassion circle. The idea, I remind myself and others, is not to beat up on ourselves for our sometimes silly and strange stories, but rather it is to realize what the human brain does and find ways to loosen the grip.

I'm sure you all know this old Chinese parable about good luck, bad luck. I think it appropriate to remember on this auspicious day no matter how many times you have heard it. Think how you might apply the idea about judging others, ourselves, and our lives.

A farmer’s horse runs away. The neighbors say, “Such bad luck.” The farmer replies, “Maybe.”

The next day, the horse returns with three wild horses. “What good luck!” they say.“ Maybe,” the farmer answers.

His son tries to ride one of the wild horses, falls, and breaks his leg. “How terrible!” “Maybe.”

Soon after, soldiers come to draft young men into the army. The son is spared because of his injury. “What good fortune!” “Maybe.”

The story is simple, but the wisdom is deep.

We do not see the whole picture. We never have. What we call “good” or “bad” is often just a chapter, not the ending.

I cannot tell you how many people I know who lost jobs and found that it opened space for them to find jobs they loved much more and felt fit them much better. Their assumptions of how awful their lives were going to be after losing their jobs were very wrongheaded.

And yet, our storytelling minds rush to declare meaning far too soon. Kahneman says it’s just the way the brain works. We have to learn how to deal with it.

What if, instead, we held our stories a little more lightly?

What if we became curious about them?

What if we said, more often, “Maybe”?

I can say this understanding is one of the things that has helped me be a better spouse. I question my stories these days much more than I did in the early days when I was so sure of myself. It's been a lifesaver for our relationship.

You'd think it would feel jarring to question the stories you make up, but instead there can be a quiet freedom. A softening. A widening. A lovely generosity of spirit.

And so, here are a few gentle practices to carry forward on this St. Paddy's day:

Notice your language. When you catch yourself saying to yourself or others “They don’t care” or “This always happens,” pause and ask, What are the actual facts?

Name the story. Simply saying, “I’m telling myself a story” can create space between you and the thought.

Look for disconfirming evidence. If your story is true, what evidence would you expect? And what evidence suggests it might not be?

Practice the “maybe.” Borrow from the farmer. Resist the urge to finalize meaning too quickly.

Try Byron Katie’s questions. Especially the last one: Who would I be without this thought? That question alone can feel like fresh air.

We are, all of us, meaning-makers. Storytellers. All the time. It's part of our beauty and our burden.

But we are also capable of stepping back, of seeing more clearly, of choosing which stories to hold and which to release. We can also share with others what the story is that we're telling ourselves and check it out.

I'm betting on a lot more peace and fun for everyone who can learn how to separate out facts from the stories they tell themselves.

And so, a made-up Irish blessing...as we walk through our days—through conversations half-heard, glances half-understood, and moments we are so quick to explain—

May we remember that we are not just observers of life, but interpreters. And that our interpretations, while powerful, are not always true.

May you have the wisdom to see what is truly there, and the humility to question the stories you tell.

May your mind grow quiet enough to notice the difference,and your heart grow wide enough to hold uncertainty with peace.

May you be slow to assume and quick to understand, gentle with yourself when your mind runs ahead, and kind to others when their stories differ from your own.

How might we take the Chinese story of good luck, bad luck to journey together to the Good Life and perhaps to a pot o' gold on this St. Patrick's Day... by learning how our human brains work, take notice of the stories we tell, realize that the brain is doing what it does without having full regard for the facts, and loosen the grip of those stories which can destroy relationships, cause anxiety and depression and lead us away from well-being?