When Stories Shape Truth: Myth, Discernment, and Growth

Kerry Jehanne-Guadalupe

I am fascinated by the power a story can hold—by the stories we tell ourselves, and by those that are passed to us. Stories can inspire, moving through us in ways that awaken courage, imagination, and change. They can also persuade, subtly shaping perception and guiding belief. And when a false story is accepted as truth, it can quietly confine us, organizing our inner and outer worlds around assumptions. When only one version of a story is repeated across a lifetime, other possibilities may feel impossible to imagine. In this way, stories do not merely describe the world; they shape the limits of what we believe is real.

And yet, even the most enduring narratives can loosen. Humans often need stories to orient themselves in the face of uncertainty—to create meaning, continuity, and a sense of belonging in a complex world. The stories we inherit often serve as scaffolding, offering coherence until we are ready to see beyond them. I sense we are living in such a moment now, when many are becoming open to hearing deeper, more honest stories—about ourselves, about history, and about the cosmos. These are not new truths, but truths that arrive when we are ready to receive them, gently revising the narratives that once helped us make sense of the world.

When Stories Become History

Human history is shaped as much by the stories we tell as by the events themselves. Stories—whether born of misunderstanding, intention, or power—carry an extraordinary capacity to shape perception, influence belief, and guide collective memory across generations. Once a story takes hold, it can become so familiar that it feels indistinguishable from truth, even when its foundations are uncertain.

Throughout time, certain narratives have been elevated and repeated until they hardened into cultural fact, while others were quietly altered, simplified, or obscured. In some cases, a single interpretation—offered long after the original events—has shaped how millions of people understand goodness and wrongdoing, virtue and failure, sanctity and transgression. Such stories often endure not because they are accurate, but because they serve a function: stabilizing identity, reinforcing authority, or offering meaning within a particular worldview.

Two well-known figures illustrate this dynamic in different ways. Christopher Columbus is often remembered as a heroic discoverer, despite well-documented historical evidence that complicates both his character and his legacy. Columbus did not discover what is now the United States, nor was he the first European to reach the Americas, which were already inhabited by Indigenous peoples for millennia. Nonetheless, a national holiday was established in his name, rooted in a narrative that misrepresents both the nature of his voyages and their consequences. A story that elevates exploration while obscuring harm.

Over time, this story has proven remarkably tenacious. Even as historical understanding has expanded to include the violence and suffering associated with Columbus’s governance in the Caribbean, the original myth has remained deeply embedded in cultural memory. The continued celebration of Columbus reflects not historical fact, but the endurance of a powerful narrative. Efforts to recognize Indigenous Peoples’ Day reflect a growing desire to honor truth more fully—both by acknowledging Indigenous presence and by reconsidering how history has been told.

The other individual has long been portrayed as morally flawed, despite the absence of such a characterization in the earliest accounts. In a sermon delivered in the sixth century, Pope Gregory the Great contributed to a portrayal of Mary Magdalene that would endure for centuries. In this homily, Gregory conflated three distinct women from the New Testament: Mary Magdalene, described as having been freed from seven demons; the unnamed woman in the Gospel of Luke who anoints Jesus’s feet and wipes them with her hair; and Mary of Bethany, who anoints Jesus with costly nard in the Gospel of John. Through this fusion, Mary Magdalene came to be identified with sexual “sin” and repentance—a characterization not explicitly supported by the biblical texts themselves.

This interpretation reflects the consensus of contemporary biblical scholarship, which distinguishes these women as separate figures based on textual, historical, and contextual analysis of the New Testament sources.

More than thirteen hundred years later, in 1969, the Catholic Church formally revised its liturgical understanding, separating Mary Magdalene from the identity of the unnamed woman. Yet despite this correction, the earlier portrayal has proven remarkably resilient. For many, the image of Mary Magdalene as a prostitute continues to shape popular imagination, illustrating how a single authoritative interpretation—offered long after her lifetime—can influence belief across centuries.

This narrative has been further reinforced through books, sermons, and cultural retellings that present the mischaracterization as fact. There is a profound irony in the way this false account has been used to inspire: the notion that if Mary Magdalene could be loved by Jesus, then anyone can be; if she could “turn her life around,” then so can we. While the message of unconditional love may resonate, it rests on a foundation that obscures her actual story.

This raises a quiet but essential question: if a story’s foundation is untrue, can it truly awaken an authentic sense of liberation in those who encounter it?

In both cases—Mary Magdalene and Columbus—later interpretations came to eclipse more complex truths, reshaping how these individuals were perceived far beyond their own lifetimes. Over centuries, such narratives hardened into accepted history, even when revisions or corrections emerged much later.

What fascinates me is not only that such distortions occur, but that they endure. Stories built upon misrepresentation can persist even after they are formally challenged or revised. Their longevity reveals the extraordinary power of narrative: how easily perception can be reshaped, how deeply belief can settle, and how resistant certain myths can be to transformation once absorbed into collective consciousness.

The examples of historical figures portrayed as something they were not—whether elevated beyond their humanity or diminished beyond their truth—are not anomalies. They are reflections of a broader pattern in which history is rewritten, symbols are inverted, and meaning is shaped by those with the authority to tell the story. These patterns invite us to pause, look more closely, and ask how myth, belief, and truth intertwine in shaping our world.

The Power of Myth and Superstition

For some, Friday the 13th is understood as a day associated with the Goddess—a time that honors feminine energy and the cyclical rhythms of creation, death, and rebirth. The number thirteen is often linked to lunar cycles, reflecting the approximate number of moons in a year, and has been associated with women’s bodies, intuition, and creative power. From this perspective, the number 13 symbolizes fertility, transformation, and strength. Yet despite these associations, Friday the 13th is widely regarded as a day of bad luck.

Contemporary spiritual narratives sometimes suggest that this superstition emerged as part of a broader historical effort to suppress feminine power, often referencing figures involved in the persecution of women healers and so-called witches. One such figure is Heinrich Kramer, co-author of the Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer of Witches), a fifteenth-century text that played a significant role in legitimizing witch trials across Europe. While Kramer’s work undeniably contributed to the demonization and persecution of women—particularly those associated with healing or nonconformity—there is no historical evidence linking him directly to the origin of the Friday the 13th superstition. Claims that attribute the designation of Friday the 13th as unlucky to Kramer appear to be later interpretive myths rather than documented historical facts.

Scholars widely agree that the precise origins of the Friday the 13th superstition cannot be definitively traced to a single source, and that its meanings appear to have developed gradually through overlapping religious, mythological, and cultural narratives.

In examining more widely accepted explanations, Friday the 13th is most often associated with Christian tradition and the figure of Judas Iscariot. Judas is commonly described as the thirteenth guest at the Last Supper, which took place on Maundy Thursday, followed by Good Friday—the day of Jesus’s crucifixion. Over time, the convergence of the number thirteen with Friday became symbolically linked to betrayal and misfortune. Friday itself acquired a negative reputation in Christian folklore, reinforced by traditions claiming that Cain killed Abel on a Friday and that Eve offered Adam the forbidden fruit on that same weekday.

As an aside that further illustrates the power of storytelling, the Book of Genesis never identifies the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge as an apple. Yet through centuries of artistic and cultural retelling, the apple has become embedded in popular imagination, demonstrating how narrative detail can solidify into assumed truth despite the absence of textual evidence.

The superstition surrounding the number thirteen also appears in other mythological traditions. In Norse lore, Loki—the trickster god—is said to have been the thirteenth guest at a banquet in Valhalla, disrupting the harmony of the twelve gods already present and introducing chaos into the world. Another frequently cited historical event occurred on Friday, October 13, 1307, when hundreds of members of the Knights Templar were arrested at the command of Philip IV of France. While historians debate the extent to which this event influenced the superstition, it has become part of the broader narrative landscape surrounding the date.

Regardless of its precise origin, the superstition surrounding Friday the 13th is real for many people. Some avoid having thirteen guests at a table, believing it invites misfortune; others refuse to travel on that date or avoid sitting in a thirteenth row. These fears are so widespread that they have been named: paraskevidekatriaphobia for fear of Friday the 13th, and triskaidekaphobiafor fear of the number thirteen. In response, buildings often omit a thirteenth floor, hospitals skip room numbers, and airports avoid gate thirteen. Yet even when renamed, the thirteenth floor still exists—it is simply concealed in plain sight.

What fascinates me is that many people reportedly fear Friday the 13th, yet do not know why it is considered an auspicious day. Is this a belief quietly handed down, absorbed without examination, and passed from one generation to the next? And if so, what other assumptions—about luck, danger, goodness, or evil—do we hold without ever tracing their origins?

Friday the 13th as a Holy Day?

The calendar year is divided into 52 weeks and 4 seasons—winter, spring, summer, and fall—each lasting 13 weeks. In this way, the number thirteen carries a natural seasonal rhythm. Friday the 13th, however, does not follow such a predictable pattern. While it occurs more frequently than any other specific day-and-date combination across the calendar, it does not arrive with the regularity of fixed holidays like New Year’s Day or other annual observances.

There is something quietly magical about this lack of rhythm. I know that I can sometimes fall into routines and ruts that no longer serve me, and that meaningful change often requires an interruption—a breaking of pattern rather than its repetition. What if Friday the 13th were reimagined as a day that invites such reflection? What if it became a time to notice which rhythms, habits, or inherited beliefs are ready to be examined, released, or transformed?

I find myself imagining Friday the 13th as a Holy Day of Remembrance—a non-rhythmic pause within the year that gently disrupts both personal and cultural patterns. A day not governed by superstition or fear, but by curiosity and renewal. A day that invites us to step outside habitual narratives and reconsider the myths we carry, both individually and collectively.

Perhaps this is just my own musing—but perhaps not. Within numerological traditions, the number thirteen is often associated with renewal, motivation, and meaningful transformation. Rather than symbolizing misfortune, it is understood as a threshold through which new consciousness can emerge. Seen in this light, Friday the 13th need not be feared at all, but welcomed as an unexpected invitation to remember, reorient, and begin again.

Truth Under Illumination: Discernment in Times of Growth and Evolution

What has increasingly drawn my attention is not only how truth is debated or defended, but how it is felt. In times of profound change, truth does not always arrive as certainty or clarity. More often, it reveals itself through shifts in resonance—subtle expansions or contractions within the body, the heart, or the broader field of awareness. What is coherent tends to open and breathe; what is misaligned often carries a quiet sense of constriction, even when wrapped in convincing language or familiar belief.

As individual and collective consciousness evolves, truth seems to behave differently. It becomes less about external verification and more about inner coherence. Discernment, then, is no longer merely an intellectual capacity, but an embodied sensitivity—one that notices how ideas, narratives, and information move through us. This way of sensing aligns with knowing: not as something concluded, but as something recognized—often before it can be named.

Periods of growth and evolution are frequently described as awakenings, moments of expansion, or transitions into higher awareness. Yet illumination does not automatically resolve distortion. On the contrary, increased awareness can bring unresolved patterns into sharper focus. Growth may amplify what has not yet been integrated, revealing where discernment is still required. In this way, evolution is not a guarantee of clarity, but a context in which discernment becomes more essential.

Rather than dismantling illusion outright, growth often exposes it. Old structures may dissolve, yet they may also reassemble into new forms that appear more refined while continuing to function in familiar ways. Discernment deepens not by rejecting what is new, but by sensing whether what emerges genuinely liberates or simply reassures. Myth plays a role here—stabilizing narratives that can comfort identity and provide meaning during periods of uncertainty.

As explored earlier, the stories we inherit—spiritual, cultural, historical—often endure because they organize experience and reduce ambiguity. Yet as consciousness evolves, these same stories may lose their resonance. What once guided may begin to obscure. Discernment invites us to notice when a narrative no longer aligns, not to discard it impulsively, but to remain present with what its unraveling reveals.

At times, the unraveling of a story is not experienced as insight, but as disorientation. A quiet unease may arise when a familiar narrative—individual or collective—no longer holds, even before a new understanding takes shape. In these moments, knowing often registers first in the body—as a subtle loosening, a pause, or a sense of something no longer fitting. This, too, is part of discernment: not the arrival of truth, but the recognition that something has shifted.

When we live disconnected from inner authority, illusion can quietly assume the role of truth. Belief may replace knowing, and certainty may substitute for coherence. Those who question prevailing narratives—whether spiritual or secular—can be dismissed, not because they are misguided, but because their inquiry unsettles what feels stable. Often, resistance to truth is not deliberate; rather, the illusion feels so familiar that the need to question does not arise.

For this reason, discernment rarely unfolds quickly. It seems to deepen over time, often alongside patience, humility, and a capacity to remain with uncertainty. There are moments when understanding arises not through grasping or concluding, but through a quieter listening—one that becomes increasingly embodied and attuned to resonance rather than rhetoric as growth and evolution continue.

In this way, truth is not something we evolve toward as a final destination. It is something that reveals itself as we are reshaped by knowing. Growth, then, is not about moving beyond illusion, but about cultivating the capacity to remain present as illusion dissolves—without rushing to replace it with another story that feels easier to hold.

Perhaps what allows a story to loosen without being replaced by another illusion is not certainty, but a deeper ground of trust—one that can hold not-knowing without fear.