If there’s one thing Thomas King taught me through The Truth About Stories, it’s that stories aren’t just things we tell, they’re things we live. They carry power. They shape not only how we see the world, but how we choose to show up in it. Before taking this class, I saw stories as something personal, maybe even private. But now, I see them as bridges. They connect us, shape identity, pass down values, and make people feel seen. They can heal. They can hurt. And once you share a story, as King says, “it is loose in the world”.
What struck me most about King’s lecture was how he kept repeating the phrase, “The truth about stories is that that’s all we are.” At first, I thought that was just a poetic line. But the more I sat with it, and especially after working on my literary scene assignment about Ember, the more I realized how deeply true that is for me. Stories reveal what you value most in life. It’s a way to share what you love about life to the world. A way to build a bridge between me and anyone who reads it. I’ve spent the past few years trying to connect people on campus, trying to help students feel like they belong. But underneath all of that is my own story. One of isolation, growth, and purpose.
When I wrote Ember’s story, The Courage to be Chalant, I poured so much of myself into that character. Ember isn’t just some made-up figure. He’s me, but amplified. He’s the version of me who still feels the sting of rejection when someone brushes me off, but who keeps showing up anyway. That scene, where he stands in MacHall scanning a crowd of disconnected students, came from my personal experience. I’ve stood in that exact spot. I’ve felt that exact resistance. And just like Ember, I did it anyway. Because I knew someone out there needed to be heard. Maybe I did too.
That story became my way of putting Thomas King’s words into action. Instead of just telling people why connection matters, I let them feel it through Ember. I gave them a glimpse into the heart of someone who’s been through pain, but still loves the world and its people. That shift, from telling to showing, was a lesson I wouldn’t have learned without this course.
I’ve come to realize that stories are not made for entertainment. When King shared the story of his brother, or the stories from his community, he wasn’t just entertaining us, he was showing us his truth. He made himself vulnerable. That’s what gave his words weight. That’s what I tried to channel in Ember’s voice. That vulnerability makes space for others to open up, too.
Before this class, I used stories to inspire others (for e.g. in my YouTube videos like this one). Now, I use them to connect. To say, “I see you. I’ve been there.” To give someone permission to feel. To feel like they’re not alone. That’s what King did for me and that’s what I hope Ember can do for someone else.
This course reminded me that we don’t just live in stories, we also write them. Every day, every choice, every interaction becomes part of the story we’re telling the world. My goal is to make mine a story of courage, belonging, and deep human connection. I even started writing down story-worthy moments everyday before I sleep when I’m journaling.
When people walk away from Ember’s story, I don’t want them to remember the clever lines or dramatic moments. I want them to remember how it made them feel. Maybe it reminded them of a time they felt invisible. Maybe it nudged them to look up from their phones, notice the person next to them, and have a genuine conversation. Just to remind them that they are surrounded by humans, not aliens. Maybe it gives them the courage to finally take that uncomfortable action they’ve been resisting, whatever it is, by reminding them of the deeper why behind it. If that happens, then the story has done its job.
To me, that’s the truth about stories. They’re about what they stir inside us, what they awaken. And if I can leave even one person feeling a little more seen, a little more connected, then I’ve honored the truth King gave us. And I’ve added one more sentence to my story.