The Stories That Don’t Fit (and Why They Matter Most)

All month long, I will explore “the power of story.” Increasingly, “story” is used as a buzzword to brand projects or people as unique, inclusive, or person-centered. I, too, am guilty of leaning on the phrase “the power of story.” But a story isn’t powerful because we declare it so. It is powerful because of what it reveals about individuality, relationships, and meaning-making as it evolves through time. In this blog, I discuss how narrative inquiry opens space to challenge dominant themes, reveal blind spots, and expand our understanding.

Once upon a time… I was writing my dissertation and stumbled into an appreciation for narrative inquiry. To be honest, narrative inquiry wasn’t my first choice. I had planned to do a phenomenological study, but my committee urged me to consider narrative inquiry. And when your committee urges you to do something—it’s wise to take their advice. So, I thought, Why not? How hard could it be?

As it turns out, designing and implementing a narrative research study is not as simple as listening to stories and retelling them through analysis. I quickly realized that the most common answer to my desperate questions was, “Well, it depends.” At one point, I even thought, Maybe Grounded Theory doesn’t look so daunting after all. (If you know, you know.)

But this story has a happy ending: I successfully defended my dissertation. More importantly, the experience made me a stronger scholar. Narrative inquiry isn’t about following a checklist or plugging data into a framework. Instead, it requires leaning on your academic foundation—those fancy words like epistemology, ontology, and subjectivity—and piecing together meaning without a map.

Qualitative research gave me permission to follow my curiosity. Yes, rigor requires us to pay attention to patterns across participants. But narrative inquiry also gives us tools to make space for the stories that push back, complicate, or resist.

Here’s the thing: Narrative inquiry is careful, deliberate work.

Stories are rarely neat or linear. Think about the last time you asked someone about their day. Chances are, you didn’t get a straightforward timeline. Instead, there were tangents, side notes, and context woven in. Those threads matter. Often, the meaning of a narrative lies not just in the central storyline but in the seemingly small details tucked around the edges. Our job as researchers is to listen for both.

And then there’s my favorite part: Counter-narratives.

Early on, I was fascinated not only by what data showed at the center of the bell curve but also by the outliers—the stories that didn’t “fit.” In statistics, those variances are often explained away as not significant. But to me, they represented something vital: a chance to understand human experience beyond what is considered normative.

That’s the magic of counter-narratives. They keep research from flattening differences into a single “truth.” They remind us to leave room for complexity, contradiction, and nuance. Most importantly, they make sure we don’t silence the stories that don’t fit.

So, here’s what I know:

We’re all living inside dominant narratives—and pushing against them with counter-narratives. Each of us is a unique individual trying to make meaning within larger collective stories. And let’s be real, it gets messy when you start unpacking all of that.

And, through this process [of developing a lifelong appreciation of narrative inquiry], I also learned something that continues to shape me as a scholar, a consultant, and a leader: it’s okay to feel lost. In fact, feeling lost can be a sign you’re doing it right because you’re stretching into new territory. For me, that disorientation has become a harbinger of personal and professional growth.

And that’s the story. For now.