There are days when the world feels unrelenting.
The headlines blur together—climate disasters, politics, violence, uncertainty stacked on uncertainty—and the sense of helplessness creeps in before we can stop it. Even on quiet days, it’s there, humming under the surface. That low-level heaviness. That ache of trying to keep up, stay informed, be “on” all the time.
In those moments—when I don’t know what to do with the weight—I reach for story.
Sometimes it’s a familiar book I’ve read or listened to a dozen times. Sometimes it’s a scene from an animated film that makes me feel like a kid again. Other times, it’s something I’m creating—a world of my own, waiting for me to step inside.
It’s not about escape. It’s about finding a thread—something to hold onto. Something that reminds me I’m not alone in this. That even when things look immensely bleak, there is still hope. Gandalf is going to ride in and shine light on the darkness. Mr. Rogers was a real person.
Story as Comfort
There’s something quietly sacred about turning to a story you already know by heart. You don’t have to wonder where it’s going or brace yourself for surprises—you just let it carry you.
I’ve had days where my mind was too cluttered to sit still, but a well-told story—one with rhythm, depth, and care—cut through the noise. I could feel my shoulders drop, my breath slow, my head clear.
I think we underestimate the power of that. In a world that constantly pushes productivity, being able to rest inside a story is an act of resistance. It’s a way of telling ourselves: You’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to feel. This moment is enough. You are enough.
For me, animation has always been a particular kind of balm. The color, the movement, the music—so much care poured into every frame—it reminds me that wonder still exists. That people are still out there making beautiful things, even when the world feels broken.
And sometimes, that’s all I need. Not a solution. Not a plan. Just a moment to remember: there’s still beauty, connection, and meaning out there—and in here.
Story as Processing
Story doesn’t just comfort—it helps me make sense of things when nothing else quite does.
When I’m overwhelmed or stuck in my head, I often reach for narrative—not just to feel better, but to understand why I feel the way I do. There’s something about shaping a story, whether as a writer or a listener, that allows me to name the unnameable. To sit with and make peace with complexity. To turn chaos into something I can follow—beginning, middle, end.
When I’m creating, I don’t always know where the idea is going. But I’ve learned to trust that if I follow the thread—the emotion, the character, the action—it will reveal something I need to see. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Often, my best ideas have come from trying to untangle a feeling I couldn’t articulate any other way.
I’ve written scenes or built worlds that felt like pure imagination at first—only to realize, later, that they mirrored something real I was working through. Loss. Change. The slow rebuilding of self after something breaks. Story gives me a mirror to hold up to the mess and say: Okay. This is what it looks like. Now what?
Even as a producer, helping shape someone else’s story, I’ve found that the process itself—collaborating, troubleshooting, breathing life into an idea—is a way of staying engaged with the world. It’s a form of participation. Of not going numb. Of choosing to care, even when caring feels hard.
Because creating anything in a world that feels uncertain is an act of hope. Of saying: I believe this matters. I believe we can build something meaningful, even now.
Story as Hope
The stories that stick with me—the ones I return to—aren’t just about comfort or catharsis. They plant seeds. They change how I see the world, or remind me of what’s possible, even in the hardest moments.
They make me want to show up.
Sometimes, that means showing up for others—listening more deeply, connecting more honestly. Sometimes, it means showing up for myself—giving myself permission to try, to fail, to begin again.
I think storytelling, at its best, is a quiet kind of activism. Not always loud or dramatic, but steadfast in its belief that people can change. That the world can shift. That there’s something worth fighting for—even if it’s just a sliver of light in the dark.
I’ve seen how representation in story matters. How seeing yourself—your fears, your joy, your complexity—reflected on the page or screen can spark something profound. It reminds you that you belong, too. That your story is worth telling.
And I’ve worked with people who pour their hearts into animated films or books, not because it’s easy or perfect, but because they believe in what stories can do. How they open hearts, shift perspectives, and bring people together across time, space, and difference.
For me, turning to story is a way to remember that hope isn’t passive. It’s something we create—one scene, one conversation, one act of care at a time.
When the World Feels Heavy
The world—life—is heavy sometimes. But story reminds me that we’re not alone. That even in the darkest chapters, someone is still out there, caring as I do. That even if we can’t see the way forward, we can believe in it.
And that belief—quiet, persistent, deeply human—is enough to take the next step.
In connecting with other stories, and with my own, I remember who I am. And I’m reminded that we are all part of something much bigger than ourselves.
Next Steps:
The Story We Tell Ourselves: How Self-Worth Affects Creativity in Animation & Art
(Explore how internal stories shape creative work—and how shifting those stories can unlock new potential.)
Why Psychological Safety Builds Better Teams
(A practical look at how trust and safety fuel creativity, engagement, and storytelling magic.)
Christy Heyob | Building Worlds, Stories & Creative Teams 
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