The unreliable narrator is one of storytelling’s most fascinating devices, appearing in literature and film alike to challenge our sense of truth. In The Catcher in the Rye, our narrator’s version of events is coloured by his angst and emotional instability, leaving readers to question his perspective. In Life of Pi, the protagonist presents two conflicting accounts of his journey, forcing us to confront the nature of belief and truth. Films like The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects also thrive on the power of an unreliable narrator – whether it’s a protagonist unaware of the reality they inhabit or a storyteller crafting a calculated deception.
These narratives grip us because they mirror something universal: the human tendency to create stories that are compelling, but not always entirely true. Whether deliberately or unknowingly, these narrators distort reality, and in doing so, they invite us to question everything.
But unreliable narrators aren’t just confined to books and films. In life, we’re all narrators of our own story – and none of us are entirely reliable.
The inner narrator at work
Every day, we tell ourselves stories to make sense of the world. These stories shape how we see others, interpret events, and define ourselves. But like their fictional counterparts, our inner narrators are prone to error.
Sometimes, they oversimplify, smoothing out complexity into neat explanations. Other times, they rely on emotion, amplifying threats or grievances far beyond their reality. And then there are the gaps – the moments where we lack information but automatically fill in the blanks with assumptions.
Think of a time you misjudged someone’s motives, convinced they acted out of malice, only to realise later their intentions were harmless – or even kind. In that moment, your inner narrator constructed a story based not on truth, but on fear, insecurity, or bias. These small failures of perception happen constantly, and while they may seem minor, their consequences can ripple outward.
The cost of unreliable narratives
The stories we tell ourselves don’t exist in a vacuum. They shape how we act – and the impact we have on others.
In personal relationships, an unreliable inner narrative can cause unnecessary conflict. A misplaced assumption about someone’s intentions can lead to distance, resentment, or the breakdown of trust. These misunderstandings often go unspoken, compounding over time until the relationship becomes too strained to repair.
At work, unreliable narratives can hinder collaboration and innovation. An organisation clinging to a single dominant story – ‘This is how we’ve always done it’ or ‘That team is always the problem’ – creates blind spots and silos. These narratives exclude alternative perspectives, stifling the adaptability needed to address complex challenges.
On a societal level, unreliable narratives are even more damaging. Simplistic ‘us vs. them’ stories divide communities, feeding polarisation and shutting down dialogue. Social media exacerbates this, amplifying echo chambers where only the loudest, most divisive voices thrive.
The through-line in all of this is partiality. If we don’t examine the flaws in our personal narratives, those same biases and blind spots carry over into how we act in groups, organisations, and societies.
Rewriting the story
The beauty of recognising an unreliable narrator in fiction is the opportunity it gives us to dig deeper, to question, to piece together a fuller picture. In life, it’s no different.
The first step is realising that your narrative is just that: a story, an interpretation of events. It’s partial, shaped by your boundaries, your experiences, and the voices you choose to include or exclude. Asking yourself simple questions – What am I assuming? What might I be missing? – can begin to uncover the gaps in your story.
Reflecting on past experiences can also be revealing. Think of a time you were sure you had the right perspective, only to learn later you’d missed something crucial. These moments aren’t failures – they’re opportunities to refine your understanding and approach future situations with more curiosity and openness.
Rewriting your narrative doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means embracing complexity, integrating new perspectives, and adapting to change. Like revising a manuscript, the process of rewriting allows for growth – not just for individuals, but for the systems we inhabit.
The ripple effect
When we challenge our personal narratives, the impact goes beyond ourselves. Families, organisations, and communities benefit when we expand the story to include voices we’ve overlooked. What assumptions are we clinging to? What perspectives are missing? By recognising the limits of our narratives, we open the door to empathy, dialogue, and more inclusive solutions.
The stakes couldn’t be higher. If we cling too tightly to unreliable stories, we risk perpetuating division, stagnation, and conflict. But if we embrace the process of rewriting, we create space for connection, innovation, and renewal.
What story are you living?
The unreliable narrator isn’t just a literary device – it’s part of being human. We all tell ourselves stories to make sense of the world, but those stories are only ever partial.
The question is: Are we willing to question them? To pause and reflect, to listen to voices we’ve excluded, to rewrite the stories that no longer serve us?
Because if we don’t, the cost is high. Our assumptions become barriers. Our biases fuel divisions. And our refusal to adapt becomes the biggest obstacle of all.
The next time you find yourself clinging to a familiar story, ask: What might I be missing? And what would happen if I told it differently?
K Shel Blogs 