I recently finished watching the show Severance on Apple TV+. It’s been on my to-watch list for a while, but Apple TV+ is one of those streaming services I never really felt was worth spending money on. So I kept putting it off.

However, the first season was available on my flight to Hawaii, so I decided to give it a shot. And wow, what an incredible show and what an incredible cast.

The idea behind the show is fairly simple: there’s a company called Lumon that hires employees to work on their “severed” floor. These employees undergo an irreversible procedure in which a chip is implanted in their brain. The chip activates whenever they’re on that floor, and while there, they can’t remember anything about their lives outside of work. When they leave, they forget everything that happened on that floor and resume their lives as if nothing occurred.

Essentially, one person “splits” into two separate people. The show labels them: the person at work is called an “innie” and the person outside work is an “outie.” The show explores what this means from psychological and philosophical perspectives in fascinating ways.

What I find most compelling is how it illustrates the question I often ask: Who would you be without your story? If you could have a chip inserted into your brain that made you forget who you were, you’d essentially become a completely different person.

But in real life, we can’t forget. Not really. So how do we change who we are while retaining the memories of who we were? And do we even want to?

In the show, the main character, Mark Scout (played by the always incredible Adam Scott), chooses the procedure after the death of his wife. It’s his way of escaping the pain of grief. When he forgets about her death, his entire demeanor changes each time he enters the severed floor.

I remember the day my mom died. I think about it often this time of year because she passed in August. That day marked a very distinct “before” and “after” in my life.

Losing someone close changes you in ways you can’t imagine until you’ve lived through it. The person I am now carries that grief everywhere, like I took on a backpack full of rocks the moment she died. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t unload them.

But here’s the thing about that load: in the seven years since she passed, it has become easier to carry. In the early days, grief feels so heavy you can’t imagine ever being happy again. But eventually, moments of happiness return, though they’re often tinged with the veil of grief.

That’s not to say I haven’t experienced true happiness since she passed; it’s just that my understanding of happiness is now shaped by carrying those rocks. The only way to live with grief is to learn to carry it. You have to make yourself stronger so the weight doesn’t crush you. In that way, grief can make you stronger if you let it. But it takes work.

The other character I found fascinating was Helly R.

***Major spoilers ahead—stop reading if you don’t want them.***

The first season shrouds Helly R in mystery. Early episodes show how miserable she is at Lumon and how desperately she wants to leave. But her outie self won’t let her.

It’s eventually revealed that her outie is the daughter of Lumon’s founder, and she’s manipulative, selfish, and cruel. Yet her innie is determined, confident, kind, and fiercely protective of her coworkers. She fights for them.

When she discovers her true identity in the season one finale, she’s shaken. Season two plays with that dynamic.

What’s striking is how completely the procedure transforms her. It’s a reminder that much of who we are is shaped by the story we’ve been given since childhood. In Helly’s case, she was the spoiled daughter of a wealthy corporate founder. Stripped of that story, she became someone who could channel her intelligence and drive towards good instead of greed.

The point is this: think about the story you tell yourself about who you are. Is it really you? Could you be more?

When I look at my own story, I see how much it shaped me. I grew up in a family of four with a father who cared about us but was distant and hard to connect with, and a mother who was outgoing and social, married to an introvert who just wanted to come home and watch TV. There was plenty of conflict.

They were also traditional and religious. They seemed to value my older brother—the “firstborn”—more than me. He demanded their attention, while I often felt like I was in the way.

That dynamic created the person I am now: someone uncomfortable in the spotlight, anxious about being in others’ way, a bit of a loner who enjoys long walks, reading, podcasts, and movies.

At some point, I realized my personality was almost entirely an extension of my childhood role in my family. That programming is hard to change, but with effort, I’ve learned I can change the parts of myself I don’t like.

So, what’s your story? How did the way you were raised shape you? Changing that programming isn’t easy, but with discipline and time, you can replace old patterns with new ones. Even then, it’s easy to revert to your default setting.

The point is: stop meandering through life at the mercy of your upbringing. You can change the parts of yourself you don’t like, but it will take hard work.

Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said, “You must be born again to enter the kingdom of heaven.” I don’t mean that religiously. I mean that to achieve your dreams (your “kingdom of heaven”), you must cast off your old life and pursue your new one like a newborn.

That’s the message of Severance: when you sever yourself from the past and your old story, you open the door to becoming someone new. Maybe it’s time to start cultivating that person.

But here’s the truth: no one is coming to flip the switch for you. There’s no magic chip, no sci-fi procedure. The “severance” you’re waiting for has to be something you choose, moment by moment, action by action.

If your past is a weight, learn to carry it with strength. If your story feels too small for the person you want to be, rewrite it. You are not the roles you were assigned. You are not the grief you’ve endured. You are not the limits you’ve inherited.

You are the author now. And the next chapter can be anything you have the courage to write.