You’re Already an Author, Now Become a Scientist

Take a moment and picture a scientist.

For most people, an image immediately comes to mind: a person in a white lab coat, standing in a lab surrounded by beakers, test tubes, pipettes, microscopes, Bunsen burners, and other tools. All of these instruments serve one purpose: to support the scientist in running experiments.

At its core, science is defined by the scientific method, a process of experimentation that allows us to explore observations and answer questions that arise from them.


But even before observation comes something more fundamental:

Curiosity.

Humans are hardwired to be curious. Without it, we would have no way to navigate our world.


Watch any toddler. They are relentless scientists constantly experimenting with everything around them. They look, touch, taste, smell, and listen. They are trying to answer essential questions: Who are these people? What are these objects? How do I interact with this world?


And then, something changes.


As we grow older, many of us lose access to that natural curiosity. We become attached to familiar ways of doing things. We settle on single explanations for how things work. We begin to trust our beliefs as if they are fixed, reasonable, and true.


But what if they’re not?


If being an author helps us recognize that our stories are constructed, becoming a scientist allows us to test whether those stories are actually true.


Last week, I wrote about my decision to try jigsaw puzzles online. I didn’t consciously set out to run an experiment on my long-held belief that I was “bad at spatial relationships.”


And yet, that’s exactly what happened.


By repeatedly attempting the puzzles in the LA Times and persisting long enough to eventually build the perimeter, I gathered evidence that directly contradicted my hypothesis that I was somehow incapable of doing jigsaw puzzles.

In other words, I ran an experiment. And the data didn’t support my story.


We do this kind of thing all the time, often without realizing it:

“I’m not good with conflict.”

“I always sabotage relationships.”

“I’m just not a confident person.”


But what if these aren’t truths, just untested hypotheses?


Here’s what’s important: scientists don’t stop when a hypothesis is disproven. If anything, that’s where the real work begins.


A failed hypothesis doesn’t mean failure, it means refinement. It leads to new questions, new hypotheses, and deeper exploration.


Science, at its best, is an ongoing inquiry. It doesn’t offer final answers. It invites continuous discovery.


And while we all crave certainty, science reminds us of something both humbling and liberating:


The only real certainty is that there is always more to learn about the world, and about ourselves.


This is why it’s essential to periodically test our beliefs.

Are they actually true?

Or are they simply familiar?


Letting go of an outdated belief or discovering that it isn’t true can involve real grief.


Because when a belief falls apart, it’s not just an idea we lose, it’s a version of ourselves.

But it also creates something powerful:


Space.


Space for a new, more accurate, and more useful story to emerge.


This is the heart of the ReStory work I do with clients.

We begin with authorship, recognizing that we are the storytellers of our lives. But we don’t stop there.


We become scientists of the mind and heart.


We get curious.

We test.

We gather data.

We revise.


And, with courage, we allow new stories to take shape, stories that expand who we believe we are and what we believe is possible.


So here’s the question I’ll leave you with:

What experiment are you willing to run on your identity story?

Next week, I’ll show you exactly how to design one.