On paper it didn’t add up. 

At 2:07 a.m. on Tuesday morning, the red-and-blue lights blinded me, shining bright in my rearview mirror on a Amador Valley Boulevard. 18, barely legal, full of arrogant confidence. Holding a California driver’s license and current residency, Beaverton, Oregon, near the Washington Park Mall. Washington state plates on the car, registration near expired. A Dublin police officer approached, flashlight in hand, giving me a look. I wasn’t nervous. But the truth was stranger than any lie I could’ve told him. I wondered if he’d believe me.

“Good morning. I need your license, registration, and proof of insurance.” 

“Yes, officer.”

Reaching inside the Datsun’s glovebox I found the registration. Not the proof of insurance. Handing Officer Johnson my paperwork he asked where I lived. 

“Oregon,” I said. “But I grew up here. I went to Valleyview Christian. I’m visiting friends.”

“And you have a California license?”

“Yes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And Washington plates on the car?”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, staring at me. “Doesn’t that sound a bit strange to you?”

Without missing a beat I answered. “Doesn’t it sound a little to strange not to be the truth?”

Inside I cringed, realizing after the fact what I said could’ve been taken the wrong way. But his reaction was priceless. He laughed! Shaking his head he said, “Yes, it does.”

On paper it didn’t look right, but it was. 

And that’s the point.

Stories take our disconnected facts—a license, a residence, a license plate—turning them into so much more. Stories explain. Stories connect us emotionally. Stories remind us people are more than  the sum of their circumstances, more than survivors, achievements, or what they lost—we are stories in motion, waiting for connection and to be understood.

That night, the officer ran my info. Everything checked out. He handed back my license and said, “Just be careful. This town doesn’t know you anymore.”

That hit me, harder than the warning for no proof of insurance. This town doesn’t know you anymore.

Because stories keep us known. They tether us to places, people, and purpose. Without them, we drift—reduced to a series of mismatched facts and forgotten ties.

But when we share our stories—really share them—we breathe life into the spaces we’ve left behind. It’s our reminder to the world, and ourselves, that we are here and we matter.

That’s why storytelling isn’t a soft skill. It’s a sacred act.

It’s how we remember who we are when the paperwork doesn’t match.

It’s how we’re recognized in a place that’s forgotten our name.

It’s how we turn flashing lights and suspicion into understanding and grace.

So tell your story—before the silence fills in the blanks for you.

And listen—because someone else’s truth might just be the thread that stitches your own heart back together.

In a world full of strangers, it’s the stories we tell—and believe—that make us family.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s how we find our way home again.