S01/E05: I Am Not My Story – Escaping the Illusion of a Fixed Past

Introduction

Welcome back to Martfotai, a quiet path of clarity, presence, and gentle freedom.

So far, we’ve explored how our sense of self is made up of many shifting parts. We’ve seen how the outer world reflects those fragments back to us, and how we can begin to build a still centre within, a place of quiet observation amidst the flow. We’ve seen that our thoughts, though compelling, are not the whole truth of who we are.

But what about the stories those thoughts have left behind? The narratives we’ve repeated, reinforced, and carefully maintained?

Today, we take a gentle, yet profound step further.

Imagine telling your life story, just once. Choosing every word carefully. Speaking it to someone you deeply trust. And then, letting it go. Never repeating it. Never rehearsing it internally. Just releasing it, completely.

How might that change you?

What would life feel like if you were no longer bound by your past stories? If your interactions weren’t shaped by the identity you’ve been carrying, but by something fresh, real, and present?

This episode invites you into precisely that freedom, not to erase your past, but to release your attachment to the fixed stories you carry about it. You’ll begin to see that your narrative is not a static truth, but a flexible, fluid interpretation, shaped by mood, emotion, and meaning.

We’ll explore why certain memories return again and again, how emotional charge binds them into identity, and how the act of storytelling itself can reinforce who we think we are.

And together, we’ll begin to gently question these narratives. Not to discard them with force, but to see them clearly as constructions, versions of the past told by particular ‘I’s, at particular times.

I’m Gary Eggleton, and today, we begin with one of the foundational insights on this path:

You are not your story.

Today’s gentle inquiry is this:

What if the story of who you believe yourself to be… isn’t who you truly are?

Let’s begin.

Section 1: What Is a Story?

At our core, we are storytellers. From our earliest days, we instinctively try to make sense of the world by linking events together, weaving them into meaning. Through these narratives, we craft our sense of identity.

But let’s pause and ask: what exactly is a story?

The word story comes from the Latin and Greek historia, which simply means inquiry, knowledge gained through investigation. In its original form, a story wasn’t something fixed; it was a process. A way of uncovering meaning through continual exploration.

Interestingly, the word story also shares roots with storey, a level or floor of a building. In medieval architecture, each floor often displayed paintings that told scenes from a tale. So, a “storey” was literally a layer of narrative, another chapter in a rising structure of meaning.

This metaphor opens something beautiful.

Our lives, too, are built in layers, each experience becoming another level in the story of who we believe we are. But like any true inquiry, these stories were never meant to become rigid or final. They were always meant to remain open, flexible, and alive, subject to reinterpretation and change.

Still, we often forget this. We take our stories as fixed. We tell them again and again until they harden into identities. A single memory becomes a defining statement:
“Because I was abandoned, I am unlovable.”
“Because I failed, I am a failure.”

The event may have happened. But the identity is the story, the interpretation that was formed in a particular moment, under a particular emotional lens, and then repeated.

But is it true?

Most of what we call “personal history” is not objective fact. It is a selective narrative, filtered through emotion, bias, and memory. Any moment experienced without full presence will carry distortion, like light passing through coloured glass.

Imagine your life as an unfolding book.

Are you writing new chapters, present to the words on the page? Or are you rereading and annotating the same pages, caught in familiar loops?

Do you keep using the same pen?

The same filters?

The same emotional tone?

When we remember the nature of stories, that they began as living inquiries, we can begin to loosen our grip. We can ask:

What story have I told myself the most?

And if I allowed that story to soften, what new chapter might begin to form?

This is not about denial. It is about freedom.

And it begins with the willingness to look.

Let’s continue.

Section 2: No-One Guards Your Memories But You

Let me share something personal.

When both of my parents passed away, I noticed something quiet and strange, something I had never considered until that moment.

Certain memories, shared only with them, now lived in me alone.

There were no siblings to confirm the details. No relatives who could fill in the blanks. No one else in the world held those particular moments. I was the sole custodian.

And then came the deeper realisation: no one is monitoring how I remember them. No internal authority, no mental watchdog, no “memory police” making sure I keep the details accurate or consistent.

Just me.

And so I began to see something else. Memories are not static. They are not permanent, fixed records. They are fluid; they are formed, edited, and reinterpreted depending on how we felt, what we believed, and how present we were when they were laid down.

We often imagine memory as a photograph. But it’s more like a painting done from mood and impression, hastily brushed, sometimes incomplete, almost always coloured by emotion. And yet we treat it as law.

This is where suffering enters.

Because when a memory formed in pain is accepted as truth, we inherit not just the memory but the mood. The whole emotional landscape becomes part of the identity. And we carry it, sometimes for years, sometimes for a lifetime.

But what if we paused?

What if, gently and without denial, we simply asked:

Was I truly present when this memory formed?

Was I aware of all sides, or only my own?

Am I seeing clearly, or through the lens of an old feeling?

We remember things based not on what happened, but on how we felt about what happened. And every emotion we didn’t fully process at the time, every fear, grief, shame, or longing, got woven into the story. That is what gives it weight. That is what keeps it alive.

But if no one else is guarding those memories… if you alone hold them… then you alone can reshape the way they live inside you.

This is not erasure. It’s liberation.

If a memory returns again and again, bringing pain with it, ask:

What new understanding can I bring to this?

What part of this was never seen in full light?

What if I looked again, not to cling or to rewrite facts, but to release the emotion I still carry?

You may find that forgiveness becomes possible. That clarity enters. That you begin to relate to the past not as something that defines you, but as something you’ve truly seen, and now no longer need to relive.

No one enforces the old version but you.

You alone choose whether the memory imprisons you or frees you.

So pause here.

Breathe.

Let one story come to mind that still grips you tightly.

And just for a moment, see it with new eyes. Let your presence be the witness that was missing the first time.

Then softly… continue.

Section 3: Snapshots and Fragments

We rarely meet the whole of another person. And they rarely meet the whole of us.

Instead, we meet fragments, brief, narrow expressions of the self, shaped by mood, environment, memory, and role. One version of you emerges with your parents. Another appears with your colleagues. A different one comes forward with your partner, or your oldest friend. Each feels real. But none are the whole.

This isn’t a mistake. It’s the nature of a fragmented being.

George I. Gurdjieff observed that man is not one, but many. We are composed of shifting “I”s, inner voices, postures, and selves that take the stage for a few moments, each convinced they are the whole actor. They are not. They are parts, momentary, partial, and reactive.

The difficulty is not their appearance. It’s the illusion of permanence they create. We believe our own fragments define us. Others believe the same.

From a single interaction, someone forms a lasting picture of who you are. They say, “You’re always like this,” or “You never do that.” But what they’re really describing is a repeated interaction between their fragment and yours. Their inner critic meets your defensive one. Their anxiety meets your withdrawal. The same fragments meet again and again, and that pattern is mistaken for a relationship.

And you do the same to others.

You form entire perceptions of people based on a handful of scenes, moments when their fragment met yours. You forget you’ve only seen a small slice of their life. You haven’t witnessed their silence, their longing, their private struggle. You’ve seen what surfaced in the fragmentary theatre of your shared mood.

Gurdjieff said, “Do not judge a man by the tales of others.” We might add, do not judge yourself by the tales of your fragments, and do not judge others by the fragments they show when you are near.

Memory exaggerates the illusion. It preserves certain moments more vividly, especially those laced with emotion. We remember the argument, not the reconciliation. The embarrassment, not the understanding. These snapshots become a storyline, stitched together not by fact, but by feeling.

But these are fragments, not truth. They are moments, not the whole. And if we live by them, we stay frozen too.

So, ask yourself.

What fragments do others consistently see in me? What roles have I rehearsed so often in their presence that they now seem like the whole of me?

And what fragments do I repeatedly see in them?

Is it possible that we are all relating through tiny windows, and calling that the full view?

Begin to notice the pattern. When someone says, “You always…” or “You never…”, ask, who is speaking? Which “I” in them? And which “I” in you is reacting?

Neither is the whole.

You are not who they say you are. You are not even who your thoughts say you are.

You are the space in which these fragments appear, interact, and dissolve.

And when you remember that, the whole becomes visible again.

Section 4: The Actor, the Observer, and the Stage

All the world’s a stage.

Shakespeare saw it in As You Like It, writing, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Gurdjieff lived it. And if you’ve ever paused long enough to observe yourself mid-conversation, your posture, your words, the quiet script running beneath, you’ve sensed it too.

We are actors. The roles shift, the stage changes. The set moves from office to home, from café to car, from childhood playgrounds to hospital corridors. The costumes evolve, the lighting shifts, the cast enters and exits, but we remain, performing.

Sometimes we know we’re acting. We shape our tone with care, adjust our pace, make space for others. But more often, we’re lost inside the character, believing the role is real. We forget the stage. We forget the audience. We forget the script. We react as if this moment is everything.

And so, we suffer.

In Macbeth, Shakespeare called us “poor players, that strut and fret their hour upon the stage, and then are heard no more.” It is the image of mechanical man, frantic, ruled by impulse, lost in performance, unaware that life is passing through him like wind through a curtain.

But it need not be this way.

You are not only the actor. You are also the observer, the one who sees the scene unfold. The one who knows when the lines are no longer sincere, when the gestures are learned, when the role no longer serves truth.

This observer does not judge. It directs. Gently and impartially.

And from this higher seat of attention, something beautiful becomes possible, not perfection of performance, but a conscious contribution to the play itself. You act not for applause, but for harmony.

Gurdjieff called this external considering: adapting your presence not from fear or approval-seeking, but from intelligent, compassionate care. You pause to let others speak. You soften your voice, so they feel heard. You withhold a sharp truth, not from suppression, but from love, for that truth, at this moment, may cause harm rather than coherence.

This is not shrinking. It is expanding, of purpose, perspective, and presence.

So, consider this.

What if your next interaction were a scene? Each person before you an actor, bringing lines shaped by fear, habit, or longing. Some are improvising. Others are stuck in roles they’ve forgotten they can step out of. And guiding you quietly, through an inner earpiece, is your higher awareness, your director.

It says: Speak clearly. Be kind. Let your timing be thoughtful. Let this moment unfold, not for your benefit, but for the greater whole.

Not every scene will be peaceful. Not every character will be kind. But even tragedy becomes sacred when it is observed and acted with presence.

So, ask now:

If I played this moment not to win, but to serve the whole scene,
What would I offer?
What would I withhold?

This is not a metaphor. It is a real and living practice.

The world may be a stage, but you are not just the actor.

You are the one who can choose the script.

Section 5: Emotional Glue

Why do certain memories linger, while others disappear?

Of the millions of impressions you’ve received, why do just a few return, again and again?

The answer lies not in the events themselves, but in the emotion that binds them. It is the unprocessed charge, the unresolved feeling, that keeps certain memories alive.

On its own, memory is neutral. A flicker. A mark on inner film. But when fused with unexpressed emotion, memory transforms into identity.

Not because you chose it. But because you never fully saw it.

And so, it waits.

A grief. A fear. A silent ache. A name you never meant to answer to.

It says:
“I’m the one who failed.”
“I’m the one who wasn’t chosen.”
“I’m the one who never mattered.”

These voices stay, not through logic, but through emotional glue. Not because the event was so important, but because the emotion attached to it was never fully seen.

Because the pain was never held.
Because the sorrow wasn’t met.
Because the anger had no space to move through.

So, it rooted. And became you.

But this is not who you are.

You are not the wound. You are the space in which the wound appeared, and the awareness that can now hold it without merging.

That space is freedom.

Take a moment now.

Bring to mind a story that often returns. Not the whole scene, just the feeling it always brings.

Perhaps shame.
Perhaps sadness.
Perhaps fear, tension, or dread.

Feel it in the body.

A tightening in the throat.
A heaviness in the chest.
A subtle pressure behind the eyes.

This is not weakness. This is presence.

You are not becoming the feeling. You are seeing it. Letting it rise. Letting it move, without narration, without naming.

And something begins to shift.

You stop saying, “That’s who I am.”
You start saying, “That’s what I felt.”

And with that gentle change, the glue begins to dissolve.

The memory lightens.
The story loosens.
The identity softens.

Emotion is real, but it is not all of you.

And once fully felt without identification, it moves through, just as it was always meant to.

Not a name.
Not your truth.
Not the shape of your life.

Just a moment.
Now seen.
Now felt.
Now free to go.

Section 6: Letting the Story Go

You cannot erase the past.

But you can stop carrying it.

This isn’t forgetting. It’s clarity. A moment of honest seeing, where you realise: much of what you’re holding no longer belongs to who you are now.

Most stories aren’t single events. They are long trains of meaning and memory, one carriage linked to another, looping the same tracks. Every time they arrive, the same reactions follow. The same inner dialogue. The same identity.

And without noticing, you board the train again.

But what if you didn’t?

What if you stayed on the platform, and simply let the story pass?

That is what presence offers. Not deletion, but distance. Not escape, but perspective.

So, try this.

Bring now a story to mind, one that you’ve told yourself for years.

Perhaps it began with something unsaid. Perhaps a wound, a failure, a moment of loss. Or perhaps it has no beginning, just a heavy middle and a rehearsed ending.

Write it down. Clearly. Calmly. Without judgment.

Then pause.

Ask yourself:

Is this always true?
Is it still happening now?
Who benefits from keeping it alive?

Let your body answer. Let silence respond.

If something shifts, a little space, a breath, a loosening, stay with it.

That space is your freedom.

Because stories only continue when we retell them. When we rehearse the feelings, reinforce the roles, and relive the same script.

But you can stop.

You can say, “I no longer need this today.”
Not to deny what happened, but to live from what is.

This is where Gurdjieff’s guidance returns with strength:
Verify everything.

Not just your thoughts, but your memories. Your conclusions. Your identity.

Verify not with logic alone, but with presence.

Because presence doesn’t argue with the past.
It just stops following its orders.

And when that happens, the story slows.
It passes.
Like a train that no longer finds a passenger.

You remain on the platform.
Still. Grounded. Free.

Not in denial, but in clarity.

And that is how the story begins to let go of you… because you’ve finally let go of it.

Section 7: Locked in the Label

There’s a moment that many of us know too well.

You run into someone from your past, perhaps a schoolmate, an old friend, or a relative you haven’t seen in years. And they say it with a smile, as if it’s a compliment:

“You’ve not changed at all.”

But something tightens inside when you hear it. Not because you want to have changed your hair, your job, your habits, but because you have changed. Profoundly. Yet somehow, standing here before them, you feel that old pattern rising again. That same laugh. That same posture. That same role you thought you’d long since outgrown.

This is the power of other people’s stories about us. They don’t evolve just because we do.

Once we’ve been labelled, as the joker, the quiet one, the dramatic one, the problem-solver, it’s hard to be anything else in their eyes. Their mind has crystallized an impression of you, and it takes effort to see past what is already known.

As the saying goes, “It’s hard to grow up in the town where everyone remembers your childhood nickname.”

But here’s the deeper cut:

It’s not just their label that traps you. It’s yours.

Because the moment they look at you that way, something in you agrees. Some fragment inside reawakens. The role reactivates. The story resumes. You slip back into the posture they remember. Not because it’s true now, but because it was once familiar.

This is how easy it is to live inside someone else’s narrative.

To become a character in a play they wrote long ago, while your present self watches silently from behind the curtain.

And yet, we do this not just with others, but with ourselves. We tell the same story, wear the same label, revisit the same wounds, and keep editing our lives to fit an outdated draft.

But your growth is real.

Your inner shifts, your new capacities, your unseen transformations, these are not nothing. They are just not part of the label. So they are not seen. Not even by you, if you’re not careful.

Presence is the only solvent.

Only presence can soften a label.

Only presence can let you be new, even when someone insists on meeting the version of you they’ve kept frozen in memory.

Only presence can hold steady when an old ‘I’ tries to climb back on stage just to keep the scene comfortable.

This is why it matters to step out of the story, not just once, but every time it tries to retell itself.

So the next time someone says, “You haven’t changed at all,” smile if you wish, but see what they cannot.

Let their label be theirs.

And return to the one place that does not need a name to know who you are.

Section 8: Tools for Unwriting the Old Script

Not everyone will see how far you’ve come.
But you can.

This isn’t about erasing memory or pretending nothing happened.
It’s about loosening the grip of the script, gently, honestly, so that it no longer writes the next scene of your life for you.

You’re not trying to forget the story.
You’re learning how not to let it steer.

So how do we begin?

Not through resistance, but through presence.

Here are three quiet tools. Not as rules. As invitations.

First, when the old narrative returns, when the voice of “I always” or “They never” replays, pause and name it:
“That’s my old story.”
Say it gently. Not to fight it. To see it. Naming creates distance. You step back onto the platform and let the train pass.

Second, re-enter the moment. Ask:
“What is true right now, without the story?”
Let your senses answer. What do you hear? What do you feel? What’s here without memory?
You may find that nothing is wrong. That this moment is quiet. That you are already safe.

Third, begin to write something new.
At day’s end, or when a familiar weight returns, take five minutes to jot down what is actually present:
What you did, how you responded, what you noticed.
Not compared to the past. Not judged. Just seen.

This is how a new tone enters, not by replacing the old, but by being real.

And remember, this is not about perfection.
Even a single breath outside the story is enough.
One moment of freedom becomes a thread.
Follow it.

Let that thread weave something unwritten.
A new script, shaped not by fear or memory,
but by the rhythm of presence.

Over time, the old pages stop turning.

Section 9: A Gentle Return

All stories, no matter how convincing, arise within something larger.

You.

Not the you of name or memory, but the one who sees.

The calm, conscious space in which narratives rise and fall, like waves upon a still ocean.

You are not your memories.
Not the voices that tell them.
Not even the narrator.

You are the awareness beneath them.
The space they move through.

This space does not cling.
It does not react.
It simply is.

And from here, clarity returns, not by striving, but by letting go of what was never truly solid.

So let us return to that space now.

In your next quiet moment, try this:

Close your eyes.

Listen, not inwardly, but outwardly.
A car. A bird. The soft hum of a room.

Don’t name the sounds. Don’t follow them.
Just let them echo.

This is the Echo:
A simple return to presence.
Not through silence, but through sound.

And with each return, the stories lose weight.
Not because they were false.
But because you’ve remembered what’s real:

The quiet watcher.
The presence beneath all telling.
The space before meaning begins.

And that… is enough.

Closing Reflection

Imagine sharing your life story, just the once.
Not to cling to it, not to explain or defend it,
but to finally let it rest.

No more rehearsing.
No more rewriting the past into the present.
No more performing for the memory of others.

Just presence.
Just now.

Because you are not your story.
You are not even the storyteller.
You are the open, quiet awareness in which every scene arises and fades.

And in that space, something else begins:
A life lived, not re-lived.
A life that no longer borrows meaning from memory,
or waits for others to update their version of you.

A life shaped not by who you were,
but by the truth of who you are, now.

If that feels true to you, even in the quietest way, I invite you to stay close.

Martfotai is still unfolding.
We are building a school of presence, slowly, carefully, with integrity.

To stay informed and receive invitations as we launch new classes, guided practices, and special events,
please visit martfotai.com and register your email.

We’ll announce our return both there and here,
as soon as we’re ready to take the next step together.

Thank you, deeply, for walking with me today,
and through all the days that brought us to this moment.

I’m Gary Eggleton, and this is Martfotai.
Until we meet again.