How much do we really understand about the workings of our inner world? Not much if we take a good example of how we often underestimate how words shape our minds and subsequently our view of everything. Therapy in the western world attempts to address this through such techniques as reframing, challenging and observing self-talk. We constantly try to find new narratives that will help us deal with pain. However, there are cultures that have known and practised this for centuries, long before psychology was even thought of. For example, among many Native American tribes, words are medicine. Stories are not entertainment or history as we often see them, but living, breathing concepts that carry messages and wisdom across generations.
My awareness of this didn’t just come from theory or books. It was heightened during a road trip in 2004 through the Northern Plains of the US. I made a point of staying away from the usual tourist routes and instead headed to some places that are considered sacred by Native Americans. I stood in the Black Hills, went to Wounded Knee and drove through Pine Ridge, ending up at the Crazy Horse memorial. Such places I had read about before and upon visiting them, I learnt as much as I could about the culture and history. One thing it tells you is that you are stepping into a world that is something older and deeper than any of us really imagine.
What struck me most was not one dramatic event that might have happened but how story and place are one and the same. The land treasured by the Native Americans, mountains, rivers, forests and plains all carry stories defining history, ceremony and meaning. When they speak about these places, they aren’t just giving information, they are conveying being part of a much larger story of ancestors, history, forced migrations, survival and community spirit.
In many Native communities, storytelling is how their community stays psychologically healthy. It roots individuals to something greater than them, that is, the history, the land and the people. When a story is told, it doesn’t just belong the the teller but also to the listener and everyone who came before. It may change or get diluted over time, but the truth remains. In this sense, stories are like collective therapy as they hold pain, wisdom and an identity that has endured across generations.
In contrast to this, Western culture tends to turn stories into products. New buzzwords like “owning your truth” or “my truth” seek to make narrative a possession. A lot of therapies attempt the same pattern, an individual tells their truth, a therapist interprets, and meaning is constructed in a safe environment. It can be powerful and indeed life-changing, but I wonder if we are neglecting an equally powerful experience within a community.
One book that I was inspired to read after my trip was Coyote Medicine by Dr Lewis Mehl-Madrona, who carries Cherokee and Sioux heritage. In it, he describes his experience as a doctor trained in Western medicine. In the hospital, he was trained to diagnose based on symptoms presented, categorise and treat with medication. In his upbringing, he was taught to listen to stories and words, not just for understanding but as the central path to restoring balance and dealing with illness.
He was taught that a symptom is not a problem to be eradicated but holds a message. It points to disconnection from Self, community from spirit and story. The question that brought conflict in his mind, as a physician, was not “How do we remove this pain” but more “What is this pain trying to say and what is the story behind it?”
What I found fascinating about the book was that it didn’t try to tell us that one system is better than the other. It argues for integration. Modern medicine can save a life in an instant, but where it falls short is adding meaning to that life. A life that needs coherence, meaning, connection and purpose. Stories and the telling of them have always been about meaning and wisdom. How to live well, have purpose and dedication, and deal with suffering and emotional pain.
In therapy, we try to reframe and re-author people’s lives. Many trauma patients carry the story that they are broken, always the problem or only exist for others when useful. These beliefs can be challenged, and a new story introduced to them that has more meaning to the context and the place where those stories were first heard. We could prompt them to see themselves as a survivor, learner, or boundary setter.
In the context of practices used by many Native tribes that I refer to in this article, healing is not confined to a therapy room and creating meaning from interpretation. Storytelling is communal and happens in groups, families and in circles. People do not just tell their story, they place it alongside others, and in doing so, reduce shame as they see it as part of the human experience rather than a human defect. Something many people going through breakups would find comforting.
Perhaps this is something that Western medicine can consider. When we visit a doctor or therapist, we want answers, action steps and closure. We want to have our surface symptoms treated, and we want the pain (physical or emotional) to go away. What this fails to see is that stories develop over time, and we will certainly have a different view of them depending on the stages of our lives. To treat symptoms superficially at one point might disconnect us from a bigger picture happening underneath. A client of mine said he went to a psychiatrist after a particularly nasty breakup and started to talk about it. The psychiatrist made it clear that he needed his symptoms so he could decide on medication. I wonder if he might have had a different view had he heard the client out?
Another important difference highlighted in the book is that in many tribal cultures, the medicine person or elder is not a detached expert who “knows” more and is there to correct. He is a keeper of stories and ritual. Their role is to help people connect with those stories, not impose a new narrative from above. Something modern therapy could certainly learn from. When a therapist believes their job is to fix, diagnose and direct, something is lost. The story becomes a puzzle to solve rather than a rich landscape to walk through together. If the therapist sees themselves as a companion and a witness to the story and hold it for the client while adding gentle perspectives, the work starts to look more in tune with what I have been highlighting here.
Looking back on my road trip and the places I visited, what stayed with me most was the sense that story, land and identity were inseparable. The places I visited were not museums, they were places of an ongoing relationship. Even as a visitor, I could feel that. The stories were ones of hardship, responsibility and survival.
It often makes me think, as a therapist, what is the link between the story being presented and belonging to a larger story? When clients come into therapy, they nearly always use a broken narrative, like they don’t know who they are or their worth depends on being approved by others. Therapy is effective when we carefully retell those stories, identifying old language and patterns, and start to introduce new words, not just slogans or mantras but words that mean something to the client’s living truth. An important lesson is to remember that these stories and retellings are not just about the individual. Do it correctly, and it will ripple out to children, partners and future generations. Coyote Medicine reminded me that mental health is not just an internal, private state. It takes place in the context of families, communities and indeed the world. When we lose that connection, we are more open to depression and anxiety.
Healing happens in both modern therapy and in indigenous tradition when meaning is restored, when we remember that we are not isolated problems to be fixed but participants in a bigger story. All of which is relevant.
