The Stories That Keep You Fighting: Marriage, Politics, and the Trap of Certainty

In this episode of The Voyage Cast, Eddie explores the invisible stories shaping how we experience marriage, politics, and everyday life.

Most of us don’t realize we’re swimming in narratives we’ve built—narratives that can trap us in blame, outrage, and certainty without ever questioning if they’re true.

Through relatable examples from political debates and common marriage conflicts, Eddie challenges us to pause, rethink the stories we defend, and start asking better questions.

Because growth doesn’t come from having all the answers—it comes from learning to see the water we’re swimming in.

If you’re feeling stuck, frustrated, or exhausted by the same old patterns, this conversation offers a different way forward: one rooted in clarity, responsibility, and real connection.

Transcript

Picture this: you’re a fish—just an ordinary fish, nothing Pixar-worthy. You glide through the water, completely unaware of the invisible force that shapes every moment of your existence. You don’t question it, not because you’re ignoring it, but because you don’t even notice it. That invisible force? It’s the water. It surrounds you, supports you, and defines your world, yet remains unseen.

Now, replace the fish with yourself and the water with the stories you tell yourself about your life, relationships, politics, and—well—everything. These “waters” shape our perspectives, define our actions, and color how we see the world. Yet, most of us glide through life without realizing we’re swimming in them. The narratives we tell ourselves become so automatic, so omnipresent, that we don’t even notice them. But here’s the catch—if you don’t see the water, you can’t begin to question it.

Swimming in the invisible stories we tell our selves

The Politics of Certainty

Certainty feels good. It gives us security, a sense of control, and identity. But what happens when our beliefs become so rigid that even questioning them feels like a betrayal? Consider your political world.

For some, Trump is a symbol of truth—a disruptor. For others, he’s chaos incarnate. On the flip side, some view Kamala as a steady hand stabilizing a ship in stormy seas, while others see a figure of further decline. These aren’t just opinions—they’re identity markers, tribal flags we hold tightly, often at the expense of seeing the nuance in the situation.

Ask yourself this question: Can I explain the other side’s perspective without sarcasm or judgment? If not, you’re not just swimming in water. You’re drowning in certainty.

What we often fight to protect isn’t the truth—it’s our story. That’s why our political “debates” don’t produce solutions. Instead, they’re a chance to defend the fortress of our beliefs and increase ratings, of course. Truth and compromise become the casualties of the war for validation.

The Blame Game in Marriage

Politics aren’t the only waters in which we’re submerged. Marriage has its own currents, and they’re often just as murky. Think of the last time you argued with your spouse. Maybe the narrative felt something like this:

• “They don’t listen.”
• “I’m always the one who cares.”
• “They’re the problem.”

Sound familiar? These aren’t just complaints; they’re stories—scripts we play on repeat in our minds. They cast us as the hero or the victim and our partner as the villain. And here’s the hard truth most of us don’t admit in those moments of conflict: We’re not fighting for clarity. We’re fighting to be right.

Take a common marital frustration—your partner is consistently late. By the time they walk through the door, you’ve already rehearsed your role in the fight. You’ve stacked evidence, reinforced your narrative, and are armed with emotional grenades. The result? Another sleepless night, stuck in the endless loop of blame and regret.

But what if, instead of reinforcing the story, you paused to ask different questions? What if you dared to see the water?

Addicted to Outrage

Why don’t we? Why do we cling to our narratives so tightly? Because being right feels good. Certainty feels safe. And conflict—oddly enough—can feel comfortable. Shouting at a political rival on social media or rehashing the same argument about dishes at home is familiar and predictable. It’s like a song stuck on repeat—frustrating, but you know how it goes.

The truth, as I see it, is that we’ve become addicted to the rhythm of outrage. Whether it’s political headlines or household squabbles, the conflict distracts us from scarier, messier realities. Realities like compromise, vulnerability, fallibility, and taking personal responsibility.

The Messiness of Reality

But here’s what gets lost in the noise—REALITY. Not the version of reality we weaponize to prove we’re right, but the unfiltered, messy truth.

• Fact: Your partner said, “You don’t listen to me.”
• Fact: Cohabiting before marriage increases the odds of divorce.
• Fact: Around 64% of voters turned out in the last election.

What do we typically do with facts like these? We dismiss them because they challenge our narrative, or we twist them into ammunition for our next argument. Rarely do we stop to ask deeper questions about what these truths mean—or, better still, what role we play in shaping them.

The Radical Act of Changing Lenses

Here’s a bold move—one that requires honesty and courage. The next time you’re faced with a fact, complaint, or opposing perspective, pause. Don’t argue. Don’t defend. Instead, ask yourself new questions:

• “What if this were true?”
• “What’s my role in this situation?”
• “What am I missing because I’m clinging to my own narrative?”

This isn’t easy. Bias is comfortable, and certainty feels safe. But the discomfort of challenging your own perspective is where growth happens. It requires you to put down your armor and sit with the messy ambiguity of reality.

Seeing the Water Again

Take five minutes today. Reflect on something that frustrates or challenges you—a political argument, a partner’s criticism, or even a grudge you’re holding. Instead of filtering it through your usual story, examine it honestly. Ask where it might hold truth, where it might not, and what part you play in it.

This is what it’s like to see the water—to step outside your stories, your arguments, and your defenses. It’s uncomfortable at first. Your certainty might melt away. Your assumptions might crack. But here’s the beauty of it—when you stop reacting and start listening, everything changes. Politics loses its venom, marriage gains its warmth, and your relationship with yourself softens.

You’ve always been in the water. But you can learn to see it. And when you do, clarity becomes less about having the perfect answers and more about asking the right questions.

Explore the water. It's waiting.