The Weight of Difference: Inua Ellams on Identity, Abandonment, and Creative Survival

In this episode of Stories That Stay, hosts Shamm H. Petros and Dwight Dunston sit down with Inua Ellams—poet, playwright, performer, and creative force—to explore the first edges of difference and the lifelong echoes of separation.

At age four, Inua and his twin sister were placed in different classrooms. What began as a child’s tantrum became an early lesson in loss, identity, and independence. Through mindful reflection and somatic awareness, Inua revisits that moment and traces how it shaped his art, his sense of belonging, and his navigation of a world marked by migration and disconnection.

Together, they explore masculinity, vulnerability, and the tension between feeling and intellect. Inua speaks candidly about the cost of noticing, the burden of creation, and the fear that our hyper-connected world is losing touch with emotion itself.

“Sometimes I wonder if being a poet helps or hinders the process.”
 “The memory prepared me for the journeys I had to take—to become an immigrant, to survive.”

What you’ll hear
• Grounding breath and mindful arrival
• Earliest memories of difference
• Naming and scaling emotions
• Connection between trauma and creativity
• Closing reflections on fear, faith, and artistic survival

About Inua Ellams
Born in Jos, Nigeria, and raised in the UK and Ireland, Inua Ellams is a poet, playwright, screenwriter, and graphic artist. His acclaimed works include Barbershop Chronicles, Three Sisters, and The Half-God of Rainfall. A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and recipient of an MBE for services to the arts, Inua continues to create across disciplines, blending cultures, mythologies, and modern identities. https://www.inuaellams.com

Mentioned resources
• The Half-God of Rainfall – play and publication info: https://wilmatheater.org/blog/dramaturgy-the-half-god-of-rainfall/ 
• Barbershop Chronicles – National Theatre live recording and script: https://shop.nationaltheatre.org.uk/products/barbershop-chronicles
• My Name Is Why by Lemn Sissay – a memoir of identity and belonging referenced in Inua’s work.

Stories That Stay is a project of Lion’s Story, a nonprofit dedicated to building racial literacy through storytelling, mindfulness, and healing. Rooted in over 35 years of research by Dr. Howard C. Stevenson at the University of Pennsylvania, our work guides individuals and institutions to reclaim their stories, reduce identity-based stress, and step into authentic inclusion—not as a checklist, but as a way of being.

Produced and edited by Peterson Toscano.
Mindful moment music by Dwight Dunston.
Music by Epidemic Sound.

Podcast site: StoriesThatStay.net

Hosts: Shamm Petros and Dwight Dunston

Transcript

0:00

My fear is we creating a future where we are completely disconnected from the natural world, from the feeling world and the sensorial world. Welcome to Stories That Stay, how stories of identity shape us. I'm Shawn Petros, a therapist, learning strategist, a refugee, a reluctant creative, a rebellious first daughter, an arid-tune refugee, a New Yorker, all those things. And I'm Dwight Dunston, a facilitator, educator, artist, and proud uncle. Stories That Stay podcast is a project of Lion Story. Our guest today is Inua Ellams, a writer, performer, and all around creative force. Born in Jaws, Nigeria, he moved to the UK and later to Ireland. With little access to entertainment growing up, he built his own worlds through imagination, art, and storytelling. That creative drive has taken him around the globe as a poet, playwright, screenwriter, and graphic artist. His plays include Barbershop Chronicles, Three Sisters, and The Half-God of Rainfall. And his poetry collections include the actual and candy-coated unicorns and Converse All-Stars. He's been honored as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, awarded an MBE for services to the arts, and continues to create and curate events that blend cultures, disciplines and voices. Inua's work spans stage, screen, and even the Doctor Who universe. His 2025 adventure for Kuti Gatua's 15th Doctor was set in Nigeria, where he also made a cameo in a bustling Legos marketplace. So let's prepare ourselves for the emotions, feelings, and true cellar merge. We want to take a moment to settle in. Everyone, if you're joining us walking, driving, resting, wherever, we'll invite you to inhale and exhale at your own rate. In this space, I'll offer you a box breath. Have you practiced that in your? All right, so I'll guide you and Dwight through it. We're going to breathe in for four, hold for four, exhale for four, hold, in for four, Hold. So I'll guide you if you're ready. And we'll do about four breaths. If you want to close your eyes, feel the back of your chair. Maybe feel your feet on the ground, your hands somewhere comfortable. Breathe in for one, two, three, four. Hold. One, two, three, four. Exhale. One, two, three, four. Hold one two three four inhale one two three four hold one two three four exhale one two three four hold one two three four last one inhale one two three four hold One, two, three, four, and exhale. One, two, three, four. Slowly come back to us. Remember, keep breathing. Yeah, will do. Thank you. That was lovely. How are you arriving today with us? um How am I arriving today? um I endorsed in a little retail therapy. I bought a pair of barefoot shoes, I now wear. I'm arriving after a day of rehearsals. I'm a little bothered by how much we have left to do in a short space of time, but I'm also dog tired. I want to lie down and watch some anime on Netflix. but I have to do some writing tonight. Yeah. So yeah, I'm in a mixed bag of emotion, but I'm present. of it are grateful for all of it and your presence here. How do you feel about sharing your story today with us? So something that makes you nervous, something you're used to sharing, or does it bring you excitement? I think I've shared aspects of my stories for quite some time and there were times when the sharing felt performative because of how often I had told the story and then it felt like I was being detached from myself because the words that I was using had become so boring, so cliche that I had to such down. But then I created again with myself where I try to figure out other ways to tell the truth. And because the truth is a multi-headed beast, it is set in stone. And by that I mean the whole truth requires the points of view and opinions of everybody involved in the incident, right? I would try and tell my stories from the point of view of my parents or my sisters or my enemies. or my frenemies, or my friends, just to make this telling interesting to me, which is a roundabout way of saying, when you ask the questions, I'm not sure which answer you're gonna get. Yeah. I love that. Sorry, I think as the therapist in me, when I say I love that, when you share hard things, it's not that I love that you're sharing hard, you're experiencing that. But I love your detail and your discernment and your distinction. I think being able to do that is very fruitful. And I feel like you are in the right place. We work with storytellers and you know, I think there's a whole economy industry around the art of it, but we hope to help it be more generative for you and for your sake and only your sake as a process. So thank you for joining us for this ride. And the researcher in us also would like to ask just one to 10, if you had any level of stress related to sharing your story, maybe it's because of what you just described. Now, stress is very low, maybe 2 % or something. Oh yeah, not 2%, 2, 1 to 10. Yeah, because that would be slightly different. Thank you. And I'll pass it on to Dwight and our co-hosts to take us through the next part of our time. Inua so grateful to be in space with you for our listeners. Inua was in Philadelphia. His play, The Half God of Rainfall was here at a theater, the Wilma Theater. I guess that was in the fall through the winter. And we got to be in conversation at that time and make a podcast in relation to that. so this In some ways for me at least feels like a continuation of some of those conversations that we had then. Knowing you already like to tell stories in different ways through different perspectives. We're not sure where we'll go. We'll be in this unknown together. I want to just ask you Inua, what are some of the earliest memories of difference that you recall? Huh. I think it's probably when I went to primary school and found out that my twin sister and I were not going to be placed in the same class. And I threw an unholy tantrum in the hall on the floor, subbing, expecting my twin sister to be beside me, subbing. Instead, she was happy. She just walked away with the other classroom. And that's when I thought, oh my God, I'm only 10 minutes older than you. We were born on the same day. We shared the same room for the last, I don't know, three, four years. I thought you were with me. I thought we were the same, but you just, you're, we're different. You know, literally, she was built different. And that's the moment I realized, So yeah, I think that was the first moment where something I assumed was the same was different. Everything else was just life, you know, but there was something that I thought where we were, know, were twinned in that, in our emotions, in our love for each other, but now I just wanted to explore the world. Now, how old are you? I think I was about four, something like that, four or five. And the message there for you, at a land when she was walking away, is that the image you're seeing? Yeah, but I expected her to be lying on the ground crying with me. The man didn't know. Give me my twin. Let's be in the same room. But wasn't her vibe. It was just... Yeah. Now, okay, when you reflect back on memories of, you know, the earliest memories of difference that you recall, this one, if you could range, we work a lot with scales here just so it can help inform us. Cause some people, sometimes we say sad at a two, we actually, you know, but being sad at 10 is very different than being sad at a two. So that helps us a bit. Now the general question would be how distressful is this for you? If you could take yourself there one to 10, four year old being separated from your twin sister. Easily a 20. It was my world was ending. You know what I'm saying? It was deeply distressing. In fact, every time I tell this story, I make a joke that this is when my abandonment issues started, where my twin sister just walked away from me. And there's definitely a sliver of truth in that. Definitely. It's just a joke that I tell, but definitely at the time I was completely devastated. I thought, What's, what's, how dare the world do this to me and with you no less, you know. You know, it was wild. Yeah. Yeah, I think you described as unholy tantrum. uh But there's a truth in a lot of jokes. So when you said, you know, low key where your abandonment issue starts, I mean, the name of the podcast is Stories at Stake, how stories shape us. Like we work with thousands of people and it doesn't matter what sense they made of their life choices and how deep the trauma, some of their earliest memories. And for many of us is that four, five, six and Not in a diagnostic way, but a curious way, right? How does that story still remain? And giving you some help with that. So you said 20. It was as distressed on a scale of one to 10, it was a 20. Yeah. You know, I was from, my father was a Muslim, my mother was a Christian. We were sort of middle-class Nigerians, sort of respectability politics when you're in public was a big thing. You know, you have to represent your family. You have to be, you know, you know. So for me to throw a tantrum because my tenses are low, I was a, yeah, I was a big thing. So was super depressed. was super distressed as a kid. Yeah. And I'm going to ask you some questions just to really break that 20 into pieces that are maybe more tangible for you and us as the listeners. You're good at naming feelings or if you can name the feelings and also scale those feelings for us as you wish. Okay, wow. Frustrated. um If I stay within one to 10, frustrated was probably like a seven or eight. Angry, definitely 10. Disappointed, maybe a six. Preyed, definitely like a nine at least. Confused, another high, maybe seven or so. Yeah. um afraid, definitely. Without my rib, beside me, I was gonna fall down. yeah, eight, nine at least. Yeah, so all of those things were wrapped in that incident. Take a breath. Hopefully you can too. I'm going to recap it for you. Frustrated, seven to eight. Angry, about a 10. Disappointed, six. Betrayed, nine. I believe you said confused was about three. Yeah, no, I said the confusion probably high, maybe five, think I said something like that. So I feel good. And our last emotion. I remember what I said. Afraid. Yeah. Afraid. pretty high as well. Yeah. Yeah. in our research and our work, you we always tell people you want to pay attention to every level, but something seven and above sometimes feels so insurmountable and it does because our bodies are signaling that. If you could take yourself either to that moment or even where you are now, did your body signal these emotions to you? Did you feel it anywhere? Could you locate it physically? I somewhere in the center of my chest, I imagine. Yeah, probably around there. I also suffer from anxiety. So I think it's all pooling around that center. Yeah. For folks that are listening, you're rubbing like the core of your chest, Yeah. in the middle. Can you describe the feeling? Is it fuzzy? Is it full? Is it sharp? it? It is, it's just sort of numb and a little cold and a sort of a little tickly but uncomfortable ticklish. And it feels heavy like there's something sitting on it. Yeah. And like my, like it's like my shirt is sticking to it a bit. It's sticking to my chest. Is the feeling you feel now? Do you remember feeling it then or is it with you now? I think is with me now. Then I think I just remember feeling angry and all of those things and throwing a tantrum and expecting the world to bend to my wins and to my wishes. Yeah. or needs. And I'm trying to imagine if you can help me what a tantrum looks like. What was that image? you, what was your body? What was the setting? Maybe it's not even related. but what is the image coming to you? I was on the floor like a kid's tantrum in in a shopping mall who can't get ice cream. was in a fall pound in the floor crying saying, no, where's, where's my twin sister? She'd be in the same class. So full out stereotypical kids tantrum kind of thing. Yeah. The African is so proud of you. The four year old of you letting it all out. Yeah. But I know there was a lot of self-talk, you know, messages we tell ourselves or has been told to us probably around this moment. You even said it, um you know, to publicly do that in a school setting. Maybe what is some of the messaging around that? Maybe, yeah, whatever's coming to you. You know, the sort of things that I wouldn't say to my nephews, but which now, but which you were told then, know, boys don't cry. You have to be, you have to toughen up. You have to be strong. I'm the only child, ill child in my family, but being out there meant that I was representing. My father, I have the exact same name as him in Walmart, Muhammad Ellams. And, you know, just not to cause a scene, those sort of various typical things, but also my people, the Hausa's um are the most stoic of Nigerians. uh So there's this um just general vibe. The Hausa's are the chillest and the most put together, the most um regal. There's a story my father told me of a Hausa man who got bitten by a snake in his finger. rather than crying he just went up to the nearest tree, lay his finger on it and hacked it off with a machete because he knew the venom would kill him. But it wasn't even a fear thing, he had just made the calculation and cool as hell. So that is Kuhasa people. They're just very... So for me to have thrown a tantrum like that, yeah, it was a no-no. I mean, there's a lot of messaging and your reflective messaging associated with religion, culture, your tribe, all of it. Can you visualize a character that's spoken to you that said this to you either before or after your tantrum? no, I can't see a specific, um, I can't see anyone embodied telling me all of this. I think it was always around us from my uncles, from my father, from my mother. None of it was said with malice, with, um, it wasn't said in a threatening sort of way. It was just the culture in which we grew up or anything. Yeah. It was the water. And not necessarily the sharks, as sometimes how I say is, in the water. Yeah. You said you felt betrayed, but the betrayal was because of your sister? Um, yeah, I think it's because I expected her to be my ride or die, to stand beside me and we try and beat the world down together and force it into, force it to our wills. So that was the betrayal. Yeah. And there are, anyone react to you witnessing this tantrum? I for a memory correctly, think there were some teachers who were laughing. There were some, I think, who thought it was adorable. Of course he wants to be beside his twin sister. Why are we even doing this? You know? And there were some who just watched the thing unfold. It was a spectacle. Yeah. I think it was a mixture of all of those things. But there is no other character in this experience for you, a prominent one, other than your sister. can't really see, and it's such a long time ago. Over, you know, I'm 40 now. It happened when was four or five. So I talk about 35 years. I can't really remember. So there's this, firstly I moved from Joss, the north of Nigeria, to Lagos in the southern regions of Nigeria. And then moved from Lagos to London. and then moved from London to Ireland and then moved from Ireland to London, I've just had to say bye to so many groups of people and so many ways of being and the people with whom I created memory with. So there a lot of things that I've forgotten or memories that have been overwritten or superseded by new ones. So sometimes it's hard for me to remember things in as clear details. And then randomly I'll meet an old friend who's telling me stories about me when I was 12 years old, because the world didn't change for them. I'm the one who left everything else, you know, so they have a sharper memory of my youth than I do. So with regards to the four years old, I remember the incidents, a lot of the detail is just blurred. When I close my eyes, just see feet, people standing, because I was on the ground. I see sunlight. pouring into the room. see my sister, a small back walking off into the distance, probably holding a teacher's hand who was leading her off to our classroom. And yeah, just looking up at some of the adults, so just, you know, all of those things. It's hard to evoke every detail, but also how we understand details, right? So if you're saying something has caused you stress at a 20, disappointment, betrayal, such a high acute number, quite literally our bodies, our everything changes, our ability to sense our eyesight, our hearing changes, even when folks make decisions, are forced to make decisions quickly in workplaces like police officers. or medical professionals. There's ways in which that adrenaline you will or the parasympathetic nervous system will have you focus in. And then at times where we could be triggered by other senses like smell, sound very differently. So what then is the truth? For us, the truth is the here and now. Can we be proud of the here and now, your ability to articulate and see and recall what you have thus far and let that be the full truth. help it emerge other truths, if you will, right? Because our body is this thing where if we can communicate with it, it will keep unlocking too. And the virtue of just having witnesses as well throughout your stories, maybe not someone that could follow you along all the memories and all the goodbyes and all the movement, but someone that can recognize veterans in you and maybe give it back to you, reframe it for you. All we ever ask people to do is just notice. We just want to help people notice things more at different times. And your ability, like, you shared the memory, you already felt like some type of rainbow, but now it feels like a kaleidoscope. Like details, the levels, and even self-talk, you shared a lot, but I wonder, like, did it mean or sound different in your mother tongue, if you're, you know, in a language you grew up hearing? Also, I hear self-talk. I don't know, Dwight, if you hear it. Like sometimes for us, it's like sayings we hear in the words is like, there's uh a, if I could give a hashtag to this story, there's some hashtag around goodbyes and the violence of goodbyes. Yeah. I guess all of that to say is to give you grace for what we remember and what we don't remember and trusting whatever comes out our mouth. Yeah, sometimes I wonder if being a poet helps or hinders process in this, you know? And some of it is rooted to the philosophy of poetry that you subscribe to. There's some who think poetry should just be an unfettered outpouring. It should be a waterfall. Just splash that shit. You're good. And then there are other schools of poetry which think poetry is actually about the refinement of emotion. And you find in the containment to hold all of it and then communicate it. And then writing and editing and writing a poem somehow hones the emotion. And I don't know if that is sometimes a repetitive emotional injury you're doing to yourself by going over it over. uh you know, over and over again, or if you are, it's closer to bloodletting, you're letting it out. And each time you go over it, you're controlling it in order to commodify it and sell it. Because unfortunately we do live in a capitalist world and each point is a product that can be sold in a book. And then it gets really complicated. And I wonder if the best thing I should do is not write. at all, or if I should write. And then I wonder about the privilege I have to even be aware that there are things I can do with emotion. And I say that in comparison to men who are just taught to deny their emotion, let alone quantify it and dissect it and then share it and come out of, know, blah, blah, Yeah. Mm-hmm. Yeah, I'm resonating because, you know, I call myself reluctant creative. That's not my pathway at all, you know, at all. I feel like I purge it reluctantly for real is that I don't even have a choice. But something I hear and recognize in your story, maybe even mine a bit, you don't have a choice. If you were to never write again, I don't think that will inhibit your poetry. Any shape or form is spews out of you. That's why I like to do this work is also, everyone's a creative, everyone's a creator. It's the only way we can really survive. Some of us are bound to it, greater means than others, we're like the seers of the world, but it is a sweet suffering to notice, to live fully all in one place. I wouldn't have it any other way. And I'm so glad that others like you and Dwight exist through the sweet suffering. It's sad, and especially in this time and space in this world. When people don't notice, I think that's the greatest crime right now. People are not willing or able to maybe in some ways, they're so disassociated and feel like they don't have options to interpret it. But to be able to notice, consume, and maybe even produce something, it's the closest thing I can get to God. I worry about like how folks like you and us care for ourselves. Cause it's like, dang, the world needs is now more than ever, but What the hell is going on here? Like how do we sustain ourselves? It's really, yeah, it's a conundrum. the world want what we want to offer? Do they have the attention span to hold it, to receive it, to engage with it, and then see what comes out? As a playwright, as a poet, these are all questions that I ask myself about how to engage with contemporary audiences in the world where poetry is competing with theatres, competing with stories and reels. Yeah. So then we have growing generations of young people who are politically and socially apathetic because there is a space for them to engage with their emotions and connect it to things. Everything new is just a swipe away. My fear is we creating a future where we are completely disconnected from the natural world, from the feeling world and the sensorial world, you know? there. If you had to scale that fear, Inua, scale from 1 to 10, where would you put it? if I dwell in it, it's big for me. It's easily a 10. Yeah. And I think the reason why it isn't a 10 is because I'm still creating work and I believe in my work. I think my work is the emotional bridge with these audiences because I'm still focused on the work. I assume that it will be successful because I need that to keep creating. Ehh But if I zoom out and look at what is more likely to happen, I think I will ultimately fail. And I say so because I don't control social media. I have no power to just turn an off switch on Instagram and TikTok and ask the world to sit with their emotions and a sheet of paper and doodle or draw and to sink deeper. Because if we can't do that, then everything we're doing, even these podcasts, even these conversations, if people can't sit and listen to them, we're throwing a coin into the bottomless well. There's some heat here that we want to just stay with as we connect this with this powerful story you told, this first experience of difference, being in touch with the emotions as you have been in this podcast. In the same way I felt like the world had pulled me away from my twin sister and I'd been abandoned by her. I feel like the world is pulling us away from each other and we are being abandoned by each other because of it. it feels like there's nothing we can do to stop it that their force is too great or too complicated. oh have a tantrum. Yeah. would a tantrum for us look like now, legitimately? Right. and the tantrum being about, well, you said fear at like, at a 10. Does it live in that same heart space that your earlier feelings live in? Or do you feel that fear of what you look out and see in our current culture in a different way? I it live somewhere different? I I intellectualize it. maybe ah it sits a little bit above the fear, but once the intellect goes and it goes into the heart, it's bottomless. The fear is overwhelming because it affects then everything that I do. I'm an artist inbuilt and that is the assumption of emotional connection. If I then assume that there can never be an emotional connection, then there's no point working. I might as well just sit in a room and do nothing. So it's huge for me. It is huge for me. And I say this when I know that I don't live in a country like America, which has a huge black population, where it is possible then to assume that there will be an audience for my work. Here in the UK, the black population is 3%. If I leave and go to Europe, which is my next door neighbor, which is the closest other market for my work, it's even smaller. So if I can connect with my audience this year, because They only put on my work if they think black people will buy it. Then because they don't believe in black audiences, then they don't. If they won't put on my work and Europe won't, then I'm screwed. This is an existential threat that has become realer and realer since Trump came into power. Because once he begins talking about burning DEI bridges and all of that stuff, UK follows suit because we're still so tied to the US economy in terms of arts, commerce, finance, et cetera. The pebbles he drops into America become waves that wash through your communities, but then they become absolute tsunamis over here. And I'm just watching it come in and there's nothing I can do. Right? Yeah. Well, brother, can I make some observations? Dwight, I don't know if you got some you want to chime in with, but you know, really just trying to be a fly on the wall. So many fronts I can have that very technical conversation with you, right? But a preamble to that was I feel in my head first, I intellectualize it. And then, right, we get the very factual descriptions. There's extremes in your language. There's nothing I could do. is a bottomless pit. And that's also another just observation. And I want to take us back to the memory in a way. If you were to go back to that age or four, discovering your twin sister is moving classes, you'll no longer be with her in this space. You're having this tantrum. You can go back to maybe moments during that experience. Would you have done it differently? You could change how you behave, can add characters to the scene if you want, but reacting to that moment, if you got a redo, would you redo it in any different way? And maybe the invitation in what as much as you can be down in your heart space with what comes and it might take a few breaths knowing that the fear was living up here eight and nine. And when it dropped down, you know, feels bottomless. What would some breaths into a response that come from the heart place be? Maybe touch your heart or your shirt. I'm going to walk you through the thoughts that I had, which is why I was unable to arrive at any sort of clear answer. think that traumatic incident prepared me for the journeys that I had to take with my family to become an immigrant, to become a disabled or displaced person, and to live in a world where nothing is uncertain and it can always be ripped away from me. And I think I've been able to survive because of my traumas. The answer to if I would change anything, I would only repair the image if I knew that I wouldn't have been forced to leave the country. Therefore, Nigeria could have remained my cocoon. I would have been safe there. And I would not have experienced what it meant to be a globally displaced person. I would not have experienced Islamophobia. I would not have experienced migration trauma. I was on holiday with my girlfriend last year when in the UK there were riots across the country where they were burning hotels with immigrants in. I've stayed in a hotel as an immigrant when I didn't know where to live. I was triggered and I had to write something to share it. Though I was on holiday with my girlfriend, I knew what it meant to be in that space. To suddenly be without a comfort zone, to look out of your window with people that literally standing outside with torches trying to burn the building you're in. I guess what I'm trying to say is that the memory prepared me for this. It's become complex and is bigger, but something about not being able to trust the world. even the people you loved because the world might tear them away, made me able to carry on doing this work and writing stories about immigrants and migrants. There are plays I've been writing about displaced people. I've been doing this work for seven years trying to get this play on. And all that's happened is the world has become more unsafe for immigrants. One of the reasons I can still do this work is because of those memories like that. Would I take away my trauma? And the answer to that is if taking it away would make me a less emotionally sturdy person, then absolutely not. Because I need to be here now. Right. So I guess the answer would be no. But if I were to stay in Nigeria and then I would take it away because I'd be in a world where everyone looks and sounds and talks like me. Ignorance would be the bliss that I have missed since Mevin. Oof. Mm. you I know I need a breath, so this a big time for our listeners to also take another one of those box breaths for our guests, Inwa, for Sham, all the things that came up for you. We know this happens in our work with stories. Once people start to tell their stories, we feel our connection to our own stories. gives us courage, it gives us insight. but it also gives us the hardships, the tragedies, along with the triumphs of our own stories. So that might be happening for our listeners, it's happening in our space now, and so as is our custom, we're gonna take a breath in. Ho- out. Let's do that one more time, breath in. Hold. Breath out. Hold. And well, your generosity with your story and your experience and even the insight to know the redo, right? I wouldn't do it differently knowing how it prepared me for the life I'm living today. And if there was any shift I would make, it would be to be there and to be still with family and in culture and language in a particular way that shielded me from what I was, what is my reality in so many ways. Just that tension. we talk a lot about in our work. Yeah, what it means to really come to new understanding, our new depths of ourselves, our stories, that there will be tension. There might even be more that we're asked to sit with and hold that wasn't there before, or that we haven't gotten the chance to presence and be with. And we know in our research and through Dr. Stevenson's work, even the ability to sit with and to be with and to name our experience. of our stories, the feelings that come up, the ways they live in our bodies, images, self-talk, you really model this entire time beautifully, it's practice. As we move towards the close, we started with your first story, right, of difference. If you could give that story a title, it's the headline of the Inua Times, the newspaper that comes out. uh Right, Sunday edition, right? You know, so it's the extensive version. People got time to read it all. Right. You know, what would the title of this first experience of difference be? was thinking the first edge, yeah, or the first cliff face or something, just to hint at the drop of emotion coming into the world's sort of just being pulled from under you. So maybe the first edge, something like that. First edge. There's new edges even to that story that you're feeling now than you did at the beginning. so, right, Chob said, you know, we got a little disclaimer. don't, we don't promise the stress about the story will go down, but we know there's healing on the other side and knowing more of who we want to become. who we've always been, you know? we've always been. Whatever it is, we're grateful that you brought what you brought with us. And you know there's so many folks, twins, family, community, girlfriend, you know who also wanna be in that story with you as you continue to just be with it, be with that first edge. Thank you so much for asking and making space for all of that. I haven't thought about it so in depthly. So thanks for your searching questions. Thank you. Yeah, the power of our imagination in creating, Maybe that's just sitting and noticing your body. So thank you for doing that. Deeply appreciate it. maybe we can all just take a closing breath in. invitation to keep drinking water, hydrating, nourishing, whatever, as you turn away from this computer, everybody. Thank you so much for that. That was so, so generous and so lovely. You're welcome. guys. Thank you. Thank you again, Inua, for your courageous storytelling. So moving, so insightful, tender, heartbreaking, heart opening. And for our listeners, we wanna close out with one more breath together. So wherever you are, we just wanna invite you to inhale and exhale. This work got emotional, it is emotional. In many ways for us. That's our hoping goal, that we get to feel into these emotions in a collective way, in a thoughtful way, in a strategic way, and use the data of our emotions to craft our next stories. Thank you so much for tuning in to Stories That Stay, how stories of identity shape us. This podcast is a project of Lion's Story. To learn more about Lion's Story and our work, visit lionstory.org. This episode was produced and edited by Peterson Toscano. Music during our mindful moment comes from me, Dwight Dunston, yours truly. Other music comes from epidemicsound.com. For our listeners, know that we are here to help you build the real courage practical language and skills to navigate discomfort with clarity and compassion, starting with yourself. 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