In the fields of psychological counseling and mental coaching, there are two topics that are almost unavoidable as "ultimate attributions": one is the family of origin, the other is social class. When a person tries to explain why they are stuck, these two factors often become the most justified and also the most disempowering answers.
"It's all my parents' fault. They suppressed me my whole childhood, so that's why I'm so insecure." "If I had been born into a wealthy family, I wouldn't have any of these problems."
These statements are everywhere in our culture. They construct a powerful "victim narrative," attributing an individual's misfortune to innate, seemingly unchangeable external conditions. On one hand, this narrative can indeed help us understand the origins of our trauma and bring a certain degree of comfort. But on the other hand, it is like a gentle poison. In the complaint of "it's all their fault," we, with clear conscience, give up the responsibility for our own growth.
When my conversations with Sixteen reached a certain depth, these two topics inevitably surfaced. Especially after we began to shake her system of "conditional self-worth," her internal defense mechanism started automatically seeking more solid "external reasons" to justify her stagnation.
That conversation began with an emotional outburst from her. The trigger was seeing on social media a college classmate from a wealthy family who, after graduation, had opened her own studio with her parents' financial support. Her life looked glamorous and free.
"This is so unfair!" Her voice on the video call was filled with barely contained anger and grievance. "We were classmates, our grades were similar in school. Just because she has a rich dad, she can easily do what she loves, without worrying about rent or failure. And me? I have to fight tooth and nail for a job that pays a few thousand, grovel to my boss every day, doing work I don't even like, just to survive."
"And then there's my family," once her floodgates opened, the pent-up emotions poured out like a torrent. "They've never truly supported me. I knew from a young age that all the family's resources were prioritized for my younger brother. I wanted to learn painting; they said girls learning that was useless, a waste of money. I got into university; their happiest thought was that now I could support myself and stop being a burden to the family. What they gave me was always pressure and demands, never real understanding or support. If I had been born into a family like my classmate's, my life would absolutely not be like this!"
She spoke for a long time, her face flushed with emotion. Throughout it all, I did not interrupt her, nor did I offer any comfort like "you need to look on the bright side." I knew that what she needed at this moment was not cheap consolation, but to be listened to and seen. The feelings she expressed -- injustice, anger, grievance, helplessness -- were all real. Any attempt to deny or minimize these feelings would only be perceived as an offense of not understanding.
When she finished, and her emotions had calmed slightly, I spoke. My first words were full of empathy and validation.
"I completely understand how you feel, Sixteen. Anyone, seeing such a comparison, would feel strong injustice and anger. The differences in family and class that you described are objective facts. Having these emotions is completely normal and reasonable. Please allow yourself to have these feelings."
These words were like a warm current, instantly relaxing her tense body. Her eyes reddened, and she nodded. This was the foundation for effective dialogue. I was not standing opposite her, playing the role of a superior "preacher." I chose to stand beside her, first becoming a "fellow traveler" who could empathize with her pain.
After validating her feelings, I began to guide her toward a deeper exploration. Our goal was not to deny the "facts," but to distinguish between "facts" and "belief-tinted facts."
"Sixteen, what we just discussed -- such as 'your classmate comes from a better family than you' and 'your parents gave more resources to your younger brother' -- these we can call 'objective facts.' They are like an X-ray, objectively presenting the skeletal structure. But each of us, after seeing this X-ray, forms a 'subjective story' in our mind. This story is the conclusion we reach by interpreting and explaining the 'objective facts' through the lens of our own beliefs."
"Now, I'd like to invite you to do an exercise with me: 'separating facts from stories.' Let's deconstruct the emotional words you just spoke into these two parts. Let's start with the part about your classmate."
I guided her: "'After graduation, she opened a studio with her parents' financial support.' That is an objective fact, right?"
"Yes."
"And what 'subjective story' did you derive from this fact?"
She thought about it and said: "My story is: 'Because she has a good background, she can succeed easily. And me, because I have a bad background, I can only struggle painfully. The gap between our lives is determined by our class, which we cannot change.'"
"Good." I wrote down her "story." "Now, let's examine this story. What feelings does this story create in you?"
"Helplessness, despair, and jealousy."
"Yes. This story places you in the position of a 'victim of fate.' It tells you that your struggle is futile, because the decisive factor (background) is beyond your control. Apart from making you feel suffering and helpless, does this story offer any positive help to your life?"
She shook her head.
"Then, let's see: based on the same objective fact -- 'she opened a studio with her parents' financial support' -- is it possible for us to tell a different, more empowering 'subjective story'?"
She looked skeptical.
I offered a few alternative versions. "For example, Story Version B could be: 'My classmate is very lucky to have strong family support, which gave her a very high starting point. This reminds me that starting points truly are different between people in this world. But that does not mean the destination is predetermined. I need to find my own path on a different track that belongs to me. Her success has no inevitable causal relationship with my life.' How do you think the person telling this story would feel?"
"...Probably... calmer. Not as angry."
"Another example, Story Version C: 'Seeing my classmate's success, on one hand I feel happy for her, and on the other hand it sparks my thinking. Is the path she chose (entrepreneurship) something I truly desire deep down? If so, without family funding, what ways can I find to work toward this direction step by step -- like gaining experience first, finding a partner, applying for a youth entrepreneurship fund? Her case can become a research sample for me, not a benchmark to discourage me.' How would the person telling this story feel?"
"...Would feel... hopeful, motivated." A glimmer of thought began to shine in Sixteen's eyes.
"You see," I summarized, "there is only one objective fact. But we can tell countless different subjective stories around this fact. Story A (the victim story) leads you to despair and stagnation. Story B (the equanimity story) returns you to inner peace. Story C (the builder story) directs you toward positive action."
"In the past, you unconsciously chose Story A and treated it as the only, unquestionable 'truth.' You were hypnotized by the story you told yourself. What we did today was break that hypnosis. To make you realize that, as the 'narrator' of your own life, you have the power to choose which story to tell."
This exercise of "separating facts from stories" cut into the core of her "fatalistic" logic. For the first time, she realized that what caused her pain was not the fact of "class difference" itself, but the despairing story of "I am therefore doomed to fail" that she had woven around this fact.
Next, we used the same method to dissect her complaints about her "family of origin."
Objective fact: "Parents gave more resources to my younger brother." Her old story (victim story): "Because they don't love me, I am a person not worthy of being loved. My lack of confidence and sense of worthlessness are all their fault. My life has been ruined by my family of origin." Feelings this story brings: resentment, self-pity, and an excuse to "rationalize" all her problems.
Then, we began to try telling new stories.
New Story B (the understanding story): "My parents' behavior is a reflection of their own limitations from their upbringing and traditional values, not a final judgment on my worth as a person. I am genuinely hurt by this. But I can choose to stop seeking the recognition I deserve from them and start learning to give it to myself from within."
New Story C (the liberator story): "I thank my family of origin. It shaped who I am today, albeit imperfectly. It taught me independence early on and gave me a deeper understanding of the complexity of emotions. Now, as an adult, I have enough strength to heal past wounds and consciously choose not to repeat their patterns. My past does not equal my future. I have the ability to become my own ideal 'inner parent,' nurturing and supporting the child within me."
As I guided her through these two new versions of the story, I saw her tightly knitted brows slowly relax. She let out a long sigh, as if putting down a heavy burden she had carried for years.
"So... this is possible to think," she said. "I always thought complaining about them was the only thing I could do. I never thought I could... choose to stop needing their approval."
"Yes," I said. "This is the true meaning of growth. Growth is not waiting for the external world to become perfect, nor is it waiting for others to give you what you need. Growth is when you realize that everything you need -- love, approval, security -- you can begin to learn to give to yourself. In that moment, you are truly free."
At the end of this conversation, I shared with her, and with every reader who comes to these pages, a deeper psychological insight.
"Sixteen, have you noticed that whether it is anger about class difference or complaints about family of origin, they both point to a common emotional core?"
"What is it?"
"Helplessness."
"When you attribute the dissatisfaction in your life to a grand concept you cannot change at all (class), you experience a fatalistic helplessness. When you attribute your lack of confidence to a childhood experience that has already passed and cannot be revisited (family of origin), you experience a helplessness of being determined by the past."
"And the human psychological mechanism has a particular characteristic: we deeply abhor 'helplessness.' To escape this panic feeling, we subconsciously 'project' it outward, transforming it into a more powerful-feeling emotion: 'anger.'"
"Anger is a high-energy emotion. When we are angry, we feel 'righteous,' 'justified,' 'powerful.' By accusing and complaining about the external world ('Society is unfair!' 'Parents are the root of all harm!'), we temporarily, illusorily shake off the feeling of being weak and helpless. It is a psychological 'sour grapes.'"
"So, when you find yourself fiercely complaining about the external world, try pausing and asking yourself a question: what 'helplessness' lies hidden behind this anger? What am I genuinely feeling powerless about?"
"For example, behind the anger at your classmate may lie the helplessness of 'currently being unable to create freely like she can.' Behind the anger at your parents may lie the helplessness of 'being unable to truly approve of myself from the depths of my heart.'"
"Seeing this clearly is critical. Because as long as you remain at the level of 'anger,' your energy is always directed outward, attacking a target you cannot change. But when you can penetrate through the anger and touch the genuine 'helplessness' behind it, your energy, for the first time, has the chance to turn truly inward, toward those things you can control and change."
"You will begin to ask yourself brand new, more constructive questions: 'OK, I admit that I truly feel helpless about some things right now. So, within my scope of capability, what is the smallest step I can take to feel more in control?' 'I admit I cannot change my background. So, what can I do to change my future?' 'I admit I cannot get the love I want from my parents. So, starting today, what ways can I use to love myself?'"
"You see, the focus of the question has shifted from 'what they should do' to 'what I can do.' This is the fundamental shift from a 'victim' mindset to a 'creator' mindset."
"True strength is not changing the external things you cannot control. It is, while acknowledging their existence, focusing all your energy on the one domain you can fully control: your own thoughts, choices, and actions."
"Stop playing the role of the 'victim' waiting to be rescued and complaining about fate. Because as long as you play this role, you are handing the remote control of your life to the people and things you complain about. They will forever determine your joys and sorrows."
"Starting today, practice playing a brand new role: the 'chief responsible person' of your life. This role may bring a hint of panic, because it means you can no longer blame others for your dissatisfaction. But what it brings you is an unprecedented, solid sense of strength and freedom. Because you finally understand: your script, from this moment forward, will be written by you, and only by you."
This conversation about "tracing the roots" did not provide Sixteen with any concrete solutions to her real-world problems. I did not teach her how to get rich quickly to transcend class. I did not give her any techniques for reconciling with her parents. Because I knew that the roots of all external problems are deeply embedded in internal narrative patterns.
What we did was engage in a profound act of "narrative therapy." We helped liberate her from the "victim story" full of complaints and helplessness that had held her prisoner. We offered her several keys to open brand new doors leading toward the "creator story."
Behind these doors, the path was not smooth. She would still face real-world pressure. She would still rub against her family's old patterns. But the difference was that her "weapons" had changed. She no longer had only the blunt instrument of "complaint." Her toolbox now contained several more refined tools:
"Fact/Story Separation" scalpel: helping her dissect her emotions and see what was truly affecting her. "Story-Rewriting" pen: allowing her to consciously choose a more empowering perspective to interpret her experiences. "Anger/Helplessness" converter: guiding her to transform outward-directed attacking energy into inward-directed constructive energy.
This is the true meaning of tracing the roots. We go back to the past, not to stay there and mourn misfortune. We go back to the past to see clearly the old patterns that shaped us, and then, with this clear awareness, move more powerfully toward the future.
Because what determines who we are is not our starting point, but the story we choose to tell about ourselves. And the pen for that story has always been in our own hands.