On learning to tell your story, from Winnie the Pooh to The Unemployment Diaries.

Not sure what to do with your life? Me neither. Author Robert Greene suggests your childhood “early fascinations” can point you toward the work or niche that might excite you today. The problem for me is that at first glance, mine seem all over the place.

The stories that shape us

First, around age six, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Being around animals all day felt like my chance at a real-life reenactment of Winnie the Pooh. I’d be Christopher Robin, living out my idyllic, forest-dwelling dreams. That is, until I learned that being a vet also meant giving Piglet shots, operating on Eeyore, and, worst of all, sending Pooh to that big honeypot in the sky. Not so idyllic after all.

Later, in fourth grade, my love for animals resurfaced when I discovered Shark Lady — the true story of fearless scientist Eugenie Clark, whose research on shark behavior dismantled the most image-damaging myths about their intelligence. Inspired by her dedication and bravery, I confidently announced to my father that I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up. I was a decent swimmer AND and big Free Willy fan. Solid 9-year-old logic.

Well, that is… until I made the mistake of watching Jaws. In one viewing, all of Dr. Clark’s positive PR for those misunderstood toothy fish was undone — courtesy of an animatronic shark, some red food coloring, and two ominous notes. Swim with great whites? Misunderstood or not, that was a hard pass.

I turned my attention to humans in my teens, spending hours writing poems and playing music. At the time, I didn’t see my Shakira obsession or the resulting urge to learn Spanish, play guitar, and dye my hair red as anything more than my current fixation. Side note: If you haven’t seen her MTV Unplugged set, run (don’t walk) to YouTube right now. Or, right after you’re done reading this article.

Looking back at these formative years, it was the stories that captivated me. Living in the forest with my talkative stuffed-animal friends. Becoming a courageous female scientist exploring the depths of the ocean. Stepping into an emotional landscape, experiencing hopes and dreams through music.

I didn’t realize it then, but stories became an anchor in my life.

The stories we tell ourselves

Ever since I can remember, I never felt a strong pull toward any one subject or career path. I always loved writing, and if old home videos are any indication, I was a bit of a chatterbox. The energy was pure “I will entertain you with my looping rendition of Incy Wincy Spider and you will enjoy it.

Words became the only common thread running through my otherwise seemingly unrelated academic and professional ventures. Even before I recognized it as such, I was using phrasing, cadence, tone, and context to change a mood, convey a message, or shift a perspective — whether it was convincing a teacher I deserved an extension on an assignment or mediating a disagreement between colleagues.

But there was still no eureka moment, no “this is it” realization of what I was meant to do with my life. And the older I got, the more that unsettled me.

That unsettled feeling was still with me during the pandemic when I caught up with an old friend. I’d just returned from grad school in the UK and was thinking about next steps. When he asked what I planned to do, I didn’t overthink my answer. “Not totally sure,” I said. “My new degree is in a slightly different field than my previous job, so I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

“Ha. You’re always figuring out what you want to do, aren’t you?” he replied.

The judgement was thinly veiled. He might as well have said: You’ve never known what you want so what are the chances you’ll figure it out now?

I left the conversation doubting not only my own indecisiveness but the friendship itself. I’d like to say I caught myself before spiraling, but the critical inner dialogue came rushing in. It went something like:

He’s right. I’m over 30 with an expensive graduate degree I’m still paying off. I should know what I want to do by now. My dad knew he wanted to be a doctor when he only was 8. Something must be wrong with me. I’m so behind.

The stories we should tell ourselves

I wish I could tell my younger self that passion and purpose aren’t printed on your birth certificate in invisible ink that only some people can read. You can evolve, let go of what no longer serves you, and explore new paths.

What’s wrong with figuring things out as you go, anyways? Think about your favorite stories. Are they the ones with predictable plot lines? Do they have one-dimensional characters incapable of error?

I doubt it.

The best stories have twists and turns. They have complex, and often deeply flawed, characters with imperfect lives who make even less perfect decisions. They also have unexpected endings.

So why do we want to have life all figured out by [insert arbitrarily chosen cut-off age here]? Well, a couple reasons.

First, because it makes us feel safe. From a neuroscience perspective, the brain’s primary job is to keep us alive by maintaining homeostasis (i.e., maintaining our internal balance). Predictable decisions feel good because, evolutionarily, safety means survival.

And safety is great. I love seatbelts. I love knowing where my next meal is coming from. I love staying alive. But I don’t want to live a life wrapped in proverbial bubble wrap. At some point, we need to go beyond the neurochemistry of our survival instincts to optimize for growth, expansion, and ultimately — a good story.

Another reason we crave having it all figured out is that we often glorify conviction in a singular purpose. Movies like October Sky — where a young, small-town Homer Hickam dreams of becoming a rocket scientist after seeing Sputnik and eventually works for NASA — perfectly illustrate how inspiring that narrative can be.

But Good Will Hunting is equally, if not more, inspiring. It’s not about Matt Damon’s character having a lightbulb moment that sends him on a straight path from working as a janitor at MIT in South Boston to a life of dreams. It’s about the chaos of his relationships, emotional roadblocks, and his hesitation to take unknown paths with no guarantee of a happy ending. In fact, the movie isn’t about where he ends up at all. It’s about the very relatable decisions, mistakes, growth, and missed opportunities along the way.

So think of your favorite movie: the journey isn’t filler — it is the story. Without it, there’s nothing worth watching. Mine began in the Hundred Acre Wood, detoured through my parents’ living room for Thanksgiving plays, stopped in London twice for school, and stretched from Islamabad to New York for a career in communications.

I now recognize that communication (in various forms) has been the tool I’ve used to craft stories, including my own story. And that tool took time to perfect. In fact, I’m practicing. Right now. Mid-keystroke.

So maybe I was never lost at all. Maybe I was and still am exactly where I need to be — honing my craft and learning how to tell my story.

And maybe you’re not lost either. Maybe you’re just deep in the twists, detours, and surprises of your own unfolding narrative. So lean in, reflect on the chapters you’ve already written, and keep telling your story as it unfolds.

Trust me, it’s already a good one.

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Aisha Ommaya hosts The Unemployment Diaries, a podcast exploring what happens “when the work isn’t working.” After nearly 15 years in corporate communications, she shifted her focus to chronicling stories of navigating change, reinvention, and the search for what comes next. Keep up with Ommaya on Substack.

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