The Stories You Tell Yourself That Your Mother Actually Wrote

Is Your Personality Inherited?

For years, I had a non-negotiable rule for myself: never, ever let the car’s gas tank go below a quarter full.

If you’d asked me why, I would have told you a story about myself.

I’d have said it was because I’m a responsible person. I’m prepared. I’m not the kind of guy who gets caught off guard.

It felt like a core part of my identity - a simple, practical expression of who I am.

One day, a friend was in the car with me when the gas light came on.

I felt a sudden rush of panic and said, “Oh no, we have to find a gas station right now. It’s not safe to let it get this low.”

My friend looked at me, confused. “We’ve got at least 50 miles left. What’s the big deal?”

As I started to explain why it was irresponsible, why anything could happen, why it was just common sense to be prepared, I stopped myself.

The words, the tone, the specific cadence of the worry, it wasn’t mine.

It was my mom’s.

I was re-enacting a conversation I’d heard a hundred times as a kid, born from a time she ran out of gas on a dark road decades ago.

I realized: this isn't my rule. It's hers.

The Scripts We Inherit

We all have these rules.

Stories about the world that we think are ours, but are hand-me-downs from a previous generation.

They are our "Inherited Scripts."

They are the foundational beliefs about how to handle money, what love requires, what safety means, and what it takes to be a "good" person.

We absorb them from our parents and caregivers so early and so completely that we mistake them for our own personality.

We don't think we're running a script; we think this is who we are.

You’re not “bad with money.” You’re running a script written by a parent who lived through scarcity.

You’re not “needy in relationships.” You’re re-enacting a script about love that you learned by watching the adults around you.

I believed my caution was a core part of me.

But a lot of it was just my mother’s story, a script she wrote to protect me from a world she was rightly afraid of.

The problem wasn’t her story. The problem was that I was still running a script for a world I no longer lived in.

The script that kept her safe was now keeping me small.

Learning to Edit the Story

Recognizing these scripts isn't about blame.

It’s about awareness.

It’s the first step toward figuring out which parts of your story you want to keep. It’s about moving from being a passive character to an active editor.

Here are a couple of things to think about.

1. Listen for the Echo

For the next week, just pay attention to your automatic self-talk, especially when you feel a jolt of guilt, anxiety, or shame.

When that voice pipes up, ask one simple question: "Whose voice does this sound like, really?"

Don't judge it.

Don't argue with it.

Just notice if the tone, the words, the core fear, feels like an echo from your past. The goal is simply to notice.

2. Separate the "Rule" from the "Fact."

Take one of your core beliefs, "I must always be productive," or "I shouldn't inconvenience others."

Ask yourself: "Is this a universal law of nature, or is it a family rule?"

Gently questioning the origin of the belief is the first step in deciding if it still serves you.

You get to decide if the rules you were taught still apply to the life you want to live now.

You can’t erase the stories your parents gave you. They are a part of your history. But you don’t have to let them be the only story you ever tell.

You can honor the story your mother wrote to protect you, understand the love or fear behind it, and then lovingly decide to write a new chapter for yourself.

The power isn't in rejecting your past, but in consciously choosing your present.