Remember? Remember when your sister made that surprise trip home that Christmas? Remember when Dad laughed so hard he almost fainted? Remember how Nana used to always eat the icing first?

Any time we gather, story is the heart of conversation. Whether cherished memories from decades back or angry accounts of being cut off in rush hour last week, we connect through the stories we tell. This pastime is nothing new. We are but the latest authors in the age-old tradition of storytelling. 

The universal human experience 

Since humanity first gathered around a fire for warmth, safety, and nourishment, we have shared stories to make sense of our world. Stories of our past and present. Our hopes and fears. Our feelings for each other. And our questions about the mysteries of life.  

American author, philosopher, and historian Joseph Cambell studied the history of storytelling. He traversed cultures, observing people groups around the globe, documenting their deeply held stories—their myths and folk tales through the ages. And he made a profound observation: Every story—was essentially the same story. He called it the monomyth. You know it. Even if you don’t think you know it, you know it. Star Wars. Indiana Jones. Finding Nemo. All these stories hold to the principles of the monomyth Campbell wrote about. The call to adventure. The mentor archetype. Seizing the sword and slaying the dragon. They are the milestones all our stories have in common. 

The most personal is the most universal (or, every story is about us)

If storytelling is the reflection of the universal human experience, then every story is a reflection of ourselves. Like a house of mirrors, different angles, contortions, and shapes offer different perspectives on the age-old existential questions about who we are, both individually and collectively. 

We connect so strongly with stories because we see ourselves in them. We see our emotions reflected in the characters of a favourite book, show, or film. We see our worst nightmares laid bare, and our deepest wishes fulfilled. We feel catharsis. And when we want to convey our own feelings, fears, wishes, and resolutions—we also often share them as a story. It’s one of the most natural ways to express our sense of identity and longing. To communicate our conviction and get our point across. To inspire empathy and connection with the people around us. Storytelling is like an instinct in our soul.

The means of storytelling have changed and multiplied to be sure — from oral storytelling and drawings in caves to ancient scrolls and staged productions, to novels, movies, and the digital revolution of streaming services with seemingly limitless shows. Still, whatever the means, the essence remains the same. It is the story of us. 

We love and remember together through the stories we share.

Around the dinner table 

Today, the story continues not just out there but right here at home. Whenever we gather, we contribute and collect each other’s latest chapters. We recount our favourite tales from our shared past — sometimes together — reminding one another of the details and the layers of the stories that shape our sense of ourselves, even as we tell them. We love and remember together through the stories we share. 

Take a moment to think about a loved one you’ve lost. Picture them in your mind. Their smile. Their laugh. Something eccentric that only those closest to them would know. When those of you who knew them best come together, consider how you talk about them. It’s likely not a recounting of disconnected facts or general statements; it’s likely a tapestry of intimate (and maybe even irreverent) tales. Maybe it’s the way they always cheated at card games or how they would sneak the kids' candy after the parents had said no. When we share their stories, these people we love, find their way back to us again. Back to our dinner table. And for the duration of those stories, in a way, it’s as if they’ve been brought back. Better still, they’ve been made real for a new generation. 

The next storytellers

It’s a beautiful generational shift when our children start bringing their own stories to the table. It starts early when toddlers recount nonsensical gibberish with the vivaciousness of a Greek comedy. Later on, kids, teens, and tweens orate with glimpses of our own mannerisms. They use our expressions and timing like ducklings in our narrative wake.

Each family or group of people, as it grows and evolves, forms its own culture that will, in turn, shape those within it. And this culture is characterized by both the stories we tell and the way we tell them.

Each family or group of people, as it grows and evolves, forms its own culture that will, in turn, shape those within it. And this culture is characterized by both the stories we tell and the way we tell them. Just like the bigger capital-S Story reflects the universal human experience, each of our little-s stories reflect our family. Our friends. Our communities. Us.

We share a backstory of how we all came together. A hundred inciting incidents that launched our connections and journeys. Our hardships and failures. Our triumphs. And all the lessons learned along the way.

When I think about my own family gatherings, I remember the feeling of all of us squeezed in around my grandfather’s  — my Pop’s — kitchen table. Whenever we got together, we’d gather there in the breakfast nook and play Spoons - a silly and fantastic cardgame. A lot of laughter. Some arguing over who grabbed a spoon first. Now that nook is gone. The kitchen's gone. My Pop is gone. But as one generation slides into the next, whenever enough of us all come together, we'll still pull out some spoons and cards for a game. We don't need the nook. As long as someone remembers how to play.

As long as someone remembers our story.    

Something we can all belong to

It may seem like an oversimplification, but Joseph Campbell’s findings tell us some valuable truths about ourselves that are worth noting. Whenever and wherever we are, we are storytellers. By sharing our stories with one another, we share wisdom and knowledge, we seek understanding and affirm identity; and ultimately, we cultivate belonging. And this, I think, might be the heart of it all. 

‍We want to belong. 

Where belonging was once key to our physical survival, now it is central to our sense of identity, value, and purpose. We want to belong in a community. A friendship. A family. At a dinner table.

Where belonging was once key to our physical survival, now it is central to our sense of identity, value, and purpose. We want to belong in a community. A friendship. A family. At a dinner table. Of course, simply sitting around a dinner table doesn’t equate to belonging. Belonging is something different; to truly belong there, with the people sitting around it, we have to be part of their story, and they have to be part of ours, such that it becomes Our story. 

Storytelling is, at its core, a testament of our need and our drive for belonging. We share our stories to remember that we belong. We belong here. We belong to each other. We belong to this moment and to this life—with all its great mysteries. I wonder what stories you’ll share this holiday.