I was recently working with the parent of a young adult who has identified as autistic and transgender, ways of being in the world this parent struggles to understand and for which acceptance does not come easily. This parent is heroically striving to repair their strained relationship. They emailed this to me recently (quoted and lightly edited with permission):
I have been thinking about our conversation about changing a story we tell ourselves when it’s not working anymore. It helps me see why so much that my adult kids do shakes me to the core, even when it shouldn’t: all of it contravenes the narrative I keep trying to keep alive . . . a narrative that I didn’t even consciously embrace. . . It’s good to give it up. Freeing, I think.
“Changing the story we tell ourselves when it’s not working anymore,” “the narrative I keep trying to keep alive,” “a narrative that I didn’t even consciously embrace,” “It’s good to give it up”—versions of this way of thinking have, since early in my professional career, been an important part of my clinical work. It is consistent with multiple therapy orientations, such as cognitive therapy (changing “schema” or beliefs about self, others, or the world), as well as Buddhist practices and Stoic philosophies (e.g., giving up attachments, differentiating what one can control from what one can’t).
I have, more recently, found new metaphors and vocabulary for talking about these concepts in ways that seem to more immediately engage and even inspire patients such as this one. These new (to me) metaphors and vocabulary come from a book about reading and writing stories, Will Storr’s The Science of Storytelling, especially his discussions of “the sacred flaw approach.”
The Sacred Flaw Approach
I introduce patients to the sacred flaw approach using versions of this:
A respected colleague recommended a book to me a couple of years ago. The book is written by someone who teaches writing and is written for writers This book suggests that the protagonists, the main characters, in many if not most books, movies, and plays, here and in cultures around the world, can be seen as struggling to figure out what to do with their sacred flaw: a way of thinking about self, others, and the world; a pattern of behaving or interacting; life strategies; values and goals that were discovered and embraced early in life and worked well—were even “super powers” for years, perhaps got them through very challenging even traumatic times, perhaps resulted in successes and achievements—until something changes and it doesn’t work anymore. However, even though it has become “flawed,” they cling to it like it is a sacred object.
The book or movie or play is mostly about the protagonist’s struggles to give up the flaw—or not—and find an alternative way to be and to live—or not. We know that stories are similar in all cultures, all around the world. This likely means that basic plots tap into something universal about human lives and human psychology. In other words, all of us struggle, at some point in our lives, with sacred flaws. I am thinking, as we talk here today, that perhaps this sacred flaw approach might be a useful way to think about what you are struggling with and working on.
Storr coaches aspiring writers to think through the origin story of their character’s sacred flaw, most likely (though not always) from childhood or adolescence, and then consider how:
“As they grow up, your character’s flawed theory of control will build a particular life for them. It’ll lead them on a particular journey—into a particular job with a particular romantic history, into a particular neighborhood and a particular home with a particular front door with a particular color and state of repair. They’ll have particular values and particular friends and enemies and particular goals, obstacles, and fears.”
Storr adds that “Our protagonist’s sacred belief . . . was, at one point, her superpower. It helped earn her everything she most valued. It gave her confidence, tenacity, and courage.” It might have led to safety; material or career gains; a sense of heightened status, even superiority; friends, colleagues, or lovers; life goals; and beliefs about achievements that will make them happy or safe. It will also cause them to worry about what they risk losing if they act against their flaw and dread what will happen if they act against their flaw.
Then something changes in the story, to or around the character, that presents “an overwhelming challenge to their sacred flaw and ultimately break(s) it apart.” This could be (a partial list): an opportunity; a journey; an investigation; a misunderstanding; a discovery; a promotion or demotion; an enemy; an accusation; an onerous task; a dare or challenge; an injustice; a temptation; a betrayal.
Then their superpower becomes their downfall—or not, depending on whether they cling to it or change. Change is hard and feels and may be risky.
Storr writes that “Many of the most memorable characters in fiction, and reality, derive their fascination from the fact that they’re making a fundamental mistake about the human world and their place within it.”
He adds, “The standard five-act structure is simply the most efficient way of showing a character’s sacred flaw being tested, broken, and rebuilt” (emphasis added):
- Act I: This is me, and it’s not working.
- Act II: Is there another way?
- Act III: There is. I have transformed.
- Act IV: But can I handle the pain of change?
- Act V: Who am I going to be?
The Sacred Flaw Approach and Therapy
In my mind, Storr’s sacred flaw approach fits with why people come to therapy (a life strategy, a change happens, it’s not working, what do I do about it?); differences between beginning and later stages of therapy (help me fix my strategy; get it to work again vs. help me find new strategies); and what people can get out of therapy (or other personal growth experiences)—more adaptive ways of thinking and behaving.
An Invitation
I invite you to think about this post in reference to your own life, perhaps especially if you are a neurodivergent adult or the parent of someone who is neurodivergent. Are the strategies that you creatively developed and wisely embraced to get through the many challenges of childhood and adolescence, and/or parenting, still working? If not, do the benefits of change make adapting worth it?