FICTION: HELPING YOU UNDERSTAND YOURSELF SINCE...WELL, FOREVER

I recently finished Expiration Dates by Rebecca Serle and found myself lingering over this passage:

If you live with chronic illness—like I have since 19—you know that some days, “choosing to live” means conquering the world… and other days, it means just making it through without wanting to throw a book at someone’s head. The weight of that choice fluctuates. Some mornings, choosing to embrace life feels like lifting a mountain. Other days, the weight is lighter, but it’s always there.

This is one of the reasons I love fiction so much. Unlike personal development books—which, don’t get me wrong, I also enjoy—fiction doesn’t present a 10-step program to better living. It doesn’t suggest you wake up at 5 am, journal for 20 minutes, sip a green smoothie, and poof—you're a more enlightened version of yourself. Sure. Just let me just ignore my body’s refusal to function before 8 am.

Fiction, unlike nonfiction self-improvement books, doesn’t tell us how to live—it shows us lives being lived.

Previously, I've talked about how stories sneak past our defenses, offering emotional distance and a judgment-free space. But there’s another reason fiction resonates so deeply: it’s not prescriptive.

When I read Expiration Dates, I wasn’t bristling against advice or mentally arguing with an author who couldn’t possibly understand my specific struggles (at least that’s what my inner toddler often says, mid-tantrum). Instead, I was simply witnessing—and in witnessing, I found myself reflecting deeply on what it means to choose life amid chronic illness.

This is where fiction’s power lies: it presents truth without forcing a lesson.

Self-help books often hand us a roadmap for change, which can be valuable—until our inner rebel kicks in. (Don’t pretend you don’t have one. We all do.) How many times have you read about someone’s perfect morning routine and thought, Easy for you to say!?

But fiction? Fiction operates differently. It doesn’t demand change; it invites reflection. It doesn’t prescribe solutions; it presents possibilities.

Maybe you’ve underlined a passage in a book and had no idea why it hit you so hard—until days later, when the truth sneaks up on you while doing the dishes. Ever had that moment?

When we underline something in fiction, we’re not marking down instructions—we’re acknowledging a resonance with our own truth. That’s a great moment to pause and ask:

  • What truth am I recognizing in these words?

  • How does this story illuminate something I’ve been struggling to express?

  • What possibilities does this narrative open up in my own life?

These revelations feel more authentic because they’re self-discovered rather than prescribed. They arise from that sacred space where story meets reader, where fictional lives illuminate our own reality.

And that’s the magic of fiction. No lectures. No “10 steps to a better you.” Just a story that meets you where you are, holds up a mirror, and lets you decide what to do with it.

So, tell me: How has fiction helped you understand yourself better? What fictional passages have stayed with you, not as instruction manuals, but as mirrors reflecting your own journey?

 

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