Why Do We Tell Stories

When I was a kid, my Grampa told me stories he made up on the spot. He never admitted it, but I could always tell. Each time, the hero had a different name, the mountain changed size, and sometimes the villain was just his neighbor, that we did not like very much. Nothing was consistent from one story to the next. Continuity did not exist in his style. Yet I loved every single word. I did not care if the story made sense or if the plot was pieced together like a quilt. I cared about how it felt. Safe. Seen. Connected. It made the world seem a bit bigger and a bit stranger than it usually was. Those stories made the small room feel wide open. They made me believe anything could happen.

Looking back, I think that is where storytelling begins. In that space where everyday life meets imagination. Life gives us facts, routines, responsibilities, and all the things we have to pay attention to. But stories give us room to explore everything beneath the surface. They let us travel without moving. They let us visit ideas we didn’t know we were allowed to have. They let us stretch beyond our limits for just a moment and return with something new. We tell stories to make sense of the world. Researchers and writers explain that our brains naturally connect with narratives. We remember things better when they come inside a story. We understand lessons more clearly when we see them played out through characters we find relatable. A list of facts might fade away, but a story lingers. It anchors itself in feelings, details, and meaning. It holds up a mirror and invites us to look closer.

We also tell the stories we are looking for. The ones we want to believe. The ones that help us cradle the world gently enough to keep moving forward.

But mainly, I think we tell stories to connect. When someone shares even a small moment from their life, our minds quickly search for the emotions behind it. Belonging. Fear. Curiosity. Hope. Stories take something that belongs to one person and invite another into it. They create a place where two people with nothing in common suddenly meet. They soften strangers into familiar shapes. They help us see each other more clearly. We also tell the stories we are seeking. The ones we want to believe. The ones that help us hold the world gently enough to keep going. Sometimes a story is a blanket we wrap up in when things feel heavy. Sometimes it’s a reminder that someone else has traveled this road before and made it through. Sometimes it’s the spark that lights our way when things seem unclear.

Stories help us solve problems, too. When we see different outcomes or imagine courage in our minds, we are practicing storytelling. When we picture the conversation we hope to have or the decision we might make, that’s storytelling. And when we relive old memories and reshape them to help us heal, that is storytelling also. It’s one of the quiet tools we use to mend what has broken inside us. And sometimes stories are just fun. A bright spark in the darkness. They let us play. They let us wander. They give us permission to be surprised.

Storytelling is a kind of time travel.

As a filmmaker, I see this every time someone sits in front of the camera and starts to remember. Their posture changes. Their voice shifts. Their eyes take on a distant look as if they have stepped out of the room and into their past. You can almost sense the moment they retrieve something precious. A detail they haven’t touched in years. A piece of themselves they didn’t realize was still there. Storytelling is a kind of time travel. We all do it, whether we write, film, talk, dream, or replay old moments in quiet rooms.

Maybe that is why stories matter so much. They help us carry meaning. They help us belong. Stories help us find courage when we feel unsure and softness when the world feels harsh. They remind us that we are more alike than we think, and that the distance between us can shrink with just a few honest words.

I like to think of a story as a lantern. You lift it a bit above your head, and suddenly, the path is visible for both you and the person beside you. If you listen long enough, with an open heart, you discover something beautiful. Together, those lights (and stories) can make even the darkest night look like a sky filled with stars.