Storytelling is steeped in tradition, which is why many people associate it with the distant past. But I always remind others that stories are just as much about the present and the future. They are powerful tools that help us make sense of what’s happening around us and allow us to envision a better tomorrow.

Stories empower us to move through fear and uncertainty. The simple act of telling—or even listening to—a story creates a little distance between ourselves and our struggles, opening space for reflection and healing.

Too often we think of stories only as polished performances on a stage. But stories also live in the small, everyday moments: the conversations that help us be honest with ourselves and one another. I was reminded of this during a recent conversation with a colleague, a trauma-informed care specialist at the local university. Trauma-informed care takes into account the whole person—their history, context, and lived experience. This perspective feels especially vital in our current moment, when so many are carrying the weight of personal and collective trauma.

Together, we began exploring the idea of trauma-informed storytelling: using the tools of storytelling to help people make sense of difficult situations. Fear of the unknown, after all, can be one of the hardest things to talk about. And yet, through story, even the unspeakable can sometimes find voice.

Not long after, she invited me to speak with her graduate students in social work. We designed the session around a series of prompts the students could later adapt in their own practice.

The first prompt was a simple icebreaker. Trauma often feels overwhelming—more like a dark cloud than a story with a beginning and end. Asking people to tell a complete story right away can be daunting. So I asked the students instead: What have you learned about yourself over the last two weeks?

The answers were small and personal—someone had learned TikTok from their child, another had picked up new cooking skills—but they carried lightness. These brief vignettes showed how even in difficult times, small discoveries can open windows for connection. And they proved a key point: you don’t always need a long or detailed account. Sometimes a snapshot is enough.

The second exercise was to share the story of your name or nickname. My own name, Kiran, means “light from the sun” in Sanskrit. (I was born in the middle of a heat wave.) A simple invitation like this creates effortless opportunities to connect.

Finally, I asked the class to recall a turning point in their lives: What led you to become a social worker? Questions like these can be adapted for anyone—what led you to become a teacher, a parent, an artist? They help us remember who we are, what we value, and the choices that have shaped us. In moments of crisis, these reminders of agency and identity are deeply grounding.

These small storytelling practices can strengthen our relationships with others, but they are also invaluable in professional settings. For social workers, reframing questions can help clients talk about trauma in new ways. Instead of asking someone to recount a crisis directly, you might ask what helped them cope, or what they learned from the experience. This shift can give people a greater sense of ownership over their story.

Life stories aren’t neat or self-contained. They weave together, shift, and take on new meaning as time passes. Even painful experiences shape us, and when we embrace them as part of the whole, we can begin to reframe them in ways that open possibilities. Each day is a chance to retell and reshape the story of who we are becoming.

During a recent session, I reflected on the idea of reframing crisis as a launch pad for transformation. Consider the metaphor of birth: labor is often described as “pain with a purpose.” Though intense and unavoidable, it leads to new life. Could the collective traumas we face now be understood as labor pains for a better world?

In Mandarin, the word for crisis is composed of two characters: one means “danger,” the other “opportunity.” Even in the hardest circumstances, both are present. And imagining what opportunities might emerge is, in itself, an act of storytelling.
​
Every story starts somewhere. Sometimes it begins with a small question, sometimes with a difficult memory, sometimes with a name. Wherever it begins, it carries the possibility of becoming something larger. And in these uncertain times, that small, radical act of imagining where our stories might take us may be one of the most powerful tools we have.

My dear friend, Jimmy Neil Smith, who was my predecessor and the founder of the International Storytelling Center, passed away this weekend. There are many people who have stories about Jimmy, and I want to encourage folks to read those and continue to share the love that Jimmy gave to the world. However, I want to share my own personal tribute to someone whom I consider a true pioneer, creative genius, and champion for the art of storytelling.

Jimmy Neil Smith retired as president of the International Storytelling Center in 2012 after 40 years of service. When I was hired as president, I stepped into big shoes. In addition to founding the institution, Jimmy Neil was the visionary behind the National Storytelling Festival.

We all have people in our lives who have influenced us, directly or indirectly, including teachers, parents, friends, colleagues, or even strangers we admire. They are the people who have shaped our thinking, passions, and work. Jimmy Neil is someone who has influenced me greatly and whose incredible life and work touched the lives of thousands, if not millions, of people and communities worldwide.

​More than just my predecessor, he was also my friend.

When I arrived in August 2013, Jimmy Neil invited me to breakfast at the Courthouse Diner in Jonesborough. We’re both talkers, so naturally, our breakfast turned into a three-hour-plus conversation—one of many meals and meetings we’ve shared over the years. In addition to our love for the art form, we shared a love for bacon, talking politics, history, and breaking the rules. On a few occasions, I even sneaked in some bacon along with the latest gossip from Tennessee’s oldest town when Jimmy Neil was in the hospital. Of course, the bacon was Jonesborough-made! Sometimes, we’d do our own prayer to storytelling while hanging out at Cracker Barrel.

I’ve had many early-morning conversations over breakfast with Jimmy Neil. When the Courthouse Diner closed, we moved to the Pancake House. You’ll find it right on the corner of Boone Street as you enter downtown Jonesborough. I recall one day, as we were eating, Jimmy Neil looked out the window and described how much Jonesborough had changed over the years. In his early career, there was no traffic and many fewer traffic lights. Jonesborough has thrived, in large part due to his vision and care.

Over the years, I got to know him well. It’s amusing how much we had in common. Many of our staff, who have worked with us both, noted that we shared many characteristics and quirks, including how we both chewed our pens as we’d think up new ideas to put into action. And one time, I showed Jimmy Neil the large sketchbook where I noted my ideas—and he had the exact same notebook for the exact same purpose.

What I loved about Jimmy Neil from the start was that he had the mind of a folklorist. He was always asking questions, always present and curious as he listened. He would ask about my family, the places and experiences that shaped me in childhood. But I soon discovered this was just who Jimmy was with everyone.

When he met my 15-year-old nephew visiting from England, I took him to the Pancake House to meet Jimmy. Jimmy, ever curious, wanted to know everything, including how events had shaped his life and his opinions on world affairs. He was always interested in hearing everyone’s stories.
When I say Jimmy has had an impact on many people, he truly has. That is the legacy of someone who has poured so much heart into developing not only an institution but an idea.

“Think of a big idea and take steps to make it happen.” That’s what he’d say; it was his mantra. And then, in his beautiful Southern drawl, he’d add, “Well, I’m just a country boy with a big dream.” And I’d jokingly reply, “Well, I’m just a city kid, now turned country.” Occasionally, we’d swap hats and try each other’s accents out.

Another fascinating coincidence, we were both admirers of Bill Strickland, a creative genius who advised both the Bush and Obama administrations. Strickland believes that if you create a beautiful place, beautiful things will happen. I remember returning to Jonesborough from a work trip, excited to tell Jimmy about meeting Strickland in Nashville and hearing that philosophy firsthand. Jimmy Neil just smiled and said he had heard Strickland give a similar talk years ago. In fact, that talk was what inspired him to create the International Storytelling Center in the first place, to build a beautiful place where beautiful things could happen.

As we know, ISC and the National Storytelling Festival have brought international acclaim to Jonesborough and the region, elevating storytelling from an everyday folk art into a thriving professional and creative industry across the nation and around the world.

As Jimmy said, “Think of a big idea and take steps to make it happen.” This was the early 1970s when Jonesborough, like many small towns in the South, was struggling and in need of revitalization. It was Jimmy Neil who had the bold idea to give that first humble gathering of storytellers the grand name of the National Storytelling Festival. And, as we all know, that idea grew into its name over time.

But Jimmy also talked about storytelling as a revolution—something that has the power and potential to meet the challenges of the world.
During my tenure leading the International Storytelling Center, these were the ideas I wanted us to keep, evolve, and develop. As we built partnerships with many peacebuilding and humanitarian agencies around the world, I remember those conversations and ideas, much of which was put into research, booklets, papers, and notes that I have read many times, as well as hundreds of conversations with Jimmy Neil, over the years.

And again, you take steps to make that happen. Jimmy did just that. He built on research and projects with the Harvard School of Education, helped put storytelling theory into practice through partnerships with NASA, the United Way, regional healthcare institutions, UNESCO, and the Smithsonian Institution. He helped establish storytelling’s role in education, healthcare, literacy, conflict resolution, international diplomacy, and collaboration.

One of the things that made Jimmy Neil a creative genius, in my eyes, was his dedication to preservation and documentation. Early recordings of the festival that he ensured were recorded now form one of the largest single collections held at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.
When I think of Jimmy Neil’s legacy, he will be remembered for developing the art of storytelling in service to the world, as a vehicle to bring people together, champion causes, foster dialogue, and empower individuals. Jimmy believed that if there are 8 billion people on the planet, then there are at least 8 billion stories to make the world a better place.

He may have called himself just a country boy with a big dream, but I can say, without a doubt—that country boy changed the world. And his creative legacy, ideas, and tangible projects, will live on for years, in benefit for generations to come.

I am grateful for everything Jimmy Neil gave to the storytelling, for the movement at large, and for what he gave me personally. But most of all, I will always treasure having the chance to call him my friend. I will be miss him dearly.

Kiran Singh Sirah.
 

For those interested in learning more about Jimmy Neil Smith, I encourage you also to read the tribute story on the International Storytelling Center website, as well as the beautiful obituary written by his family, as well as the many other writings about his work and interests.

 

2025 is complicated. The world is complicated. I always feel like people roll their eyes a little when I say things like, “stories, to build a better world.” And I get it! It’s a lofty idea… sounds impossible. A little daunting, even. But I think it’s important to remember that cultivating stories for hope and change isn’t just a feeling—it’s a practice. It’s a project we can chip away at, a little every day.

As the late storyteller Syd Lieberman once said, “Storytelling isn’t about technique. It’s about being fully human.” And as NEA Heritage Fellow Mama Linda Goss often says, “Storytelling is medicine for the spirit and healing for the soul.”

Storytelling is a true collaboration, a call-and-response tradition rather than a hierarchy. It’s our superpower, and each time we use it, we grow stronger. And behind every story is a desire to love and be loved. If our elected leaders fail to understand this, then we must lead ourselves.
On that note, I am honored to share a labor of love with you all: Telling Stories that Matter: Cultivating Our Stories to Meet This Moment—a storytelling toolkit. Whether you are an educator, peacebuilder, community organizer, student, or an everyday human working to protect democracy and human rights, this toolkit is designed to offer creative methods to explore compassionate storytelling. Use it in conversations with neighbors, friends, and family, or to support the people and causes you love.

My goal has been to make this toolkit less theoretical and more practical—something practitioners can readily use. It incorporates activities like photography, spoken word, and oral history as tools for healing and community-building. I’m also pairing it with my blog, Storytelling: A Gift of Hope.

By understanding the art of storytelling, we can center the stories that have existed on the margins for far too long—while ensuring we also make space for the ones that have yet to be told.

Storytelling: A Gift of Hope, is a curated initiative that explores the art of storytelling and its tremendous power to transform how we see ourselves and each other—not just despite our differences, but because of them. Offerings include story blogs, tools, reflections, podcasts, and ideas, with occasional guest posts from community members, and more. 

"Cultivating Stories to Meet This Moment." workshop. 
Recently, I led a 90-minute virtual workshop called "Cultivating Stories to Meet This Moment." It was a live event. The session explores the power of stories as a tool for building relationships, cultivating peace with equality & justice, and working through difficult conversations. One of my non-profit partners is now making the unedited/raw footage (includes an accompanying handout) available for purchase for $25 for personal use only. Order Kiran's Past Workshop. 

 

I keep thinking about the idea that we’re all just blips in the history of the universe. I pondered it recently, sitting by the bed of a river near my house, watching the flow of the stream that will eventually deposit into the Tennessee River, on to the Ohio River, and ultimately down to the Mississippi. In the beginning it’s just a trickle of water. Each one of us is like the little trickles. 
​
Watching the water, I thought about Siddhartha, one of my favorite books. It’s about a young man who goes on a long journey. On his quest for happiness, he meets a merchant and has a relationship with a woman. Then along the journey he meets a fisherman whose job it is to run a ferry that takes people across the river. One night the river current is too swift to cross safely, so the young man sits and talks to the ferryman. The ferryman tells him that all the things he needs to know about life, he can learn by watching the river. The man looks into the river and he sees ripples. The ferryman tells him that the ripples are teachers. Each individual ripple that comes to the surface lasts for just a moment before it vanishes back into the flow. Every life form follows a similar pattern, moment to moment. We’re all part of a continual flow.

My friend, Gwenda Ledbetter, a 93-year-old storyteller from Asheville, has a philosophy that I like about continually paying attention. Every day, she writes a story or a poem and emails it to her entire network. She tells us what’s happening with the Canadian geese that she observes through her condo window. She discusses the change of colors in the leaves in the trees, and the relationships between the animals. She shares reflections. Sometimes she relates the subject to bigger issues like climate change. 

I thought about Gwenda’s emails as I walked alongside the river in the woods near my house. The moss reminds me of the kind I’d see on rocks back in Scotland when I would go for walks. When you see moss attached to rocks or trees, you know the air is good because it can create a surface where moss can grow. I think of a walk I took a couple of years ago in the forest near here, a two-day hike along the Appalachian Trail.  It rained the whole time. Some carried food, while others carried the large tarp for the group’s campfire. It took the entire team working together to make our way. Doug Elliott, a storyteller and expert forager, joined us for part of the hike. He told us stories about the lore of the forest, and stories about the animals and life in Appalachia. At one point, we passed a spot that had been devastated by a forest wildfire. The sides of the trees were blackened. The open space looked like a barren valley, scarred and worn through. But Doug encouraged us to look closer and see even in this very spot, there was life emerging. Nature was renewing itself.
​
In Appalachia, we have a tree called the Table Mountain pine. It’s a type of “fire pine,” one of several species that rely in part on fires or the aftermath of fires to propagate. The pine cones are almost glued shut with resin, even after the seeds inside mature. The intense heat of a forest fire can melt the resin, which releases seeds that are then distributed by thermal winds. Other pine species have tough coatings that can lay dormant for years waiting for fire to release their seeds, either through fire itself or a chemical reaction in the soil.
​
In nature and in life, the destruction of one thing can mean the growth of another. It’s all ultimately part of the same story if we take the time to observe. Sometimes our moments of greatest struggle can be the memories we cherish most. Like my friend Gwenda Ledbetter and the ferryman in Siddhartha, I’ve been trying to pay attention.

The first time I visited America was in 1988. I was 12, traveling with my family, who had saved for years to give us a classic American vacation. We went to Disney World, Sea World, and New York City, where my father took us to see the Statue of Liberty. It felt cinematic, like the films I’d grown up watching.

Worldwide, we recognize places through iconic monuments we see on postcards and Wikipedia, even if we don’t know them well. As a kid, I saw the United States, as the Statue of Liberty, but now, after 13 years of living, and raising a family in a place I now call home, I associate this country with the image of the humble kitchen table.

The space around the kitchen table is, in my mind, the best place for sharing stories from the heart. A place to create empathy and cultivate compassion for others’ experiences. The U.S. is full of these stories, bursting with struggle, perseverance, sorrow, joy, celebration, and more.
Behind every story is a desire to love and be loved.

Most Americans welcome newcomers and are curious about different cultures. I’ve been invited to many dinners & potlucks and shared stories over meals with friends in my home. Hospitality and kindness are values I know that most Americans embrace.
Recently, my friend Lynn Borton and I discussed storytelling as a gift of hope on her “Choose to Be Curious” podcast and what if this kitchen-table storytelling could be expanded to our town halls and community gatherings, perhaps it could help us rise to our potential as a nation by making sure there’s room for everyone to grab a seat at the table.

Lynn informed me our conversation has been picked up by Pacifica Radio Network and will be distributed to non-commercial community radio stations starting November 6. So many kitchen tables! — around the country. I hope you’ll pull up a chair and listen with us. 

In the meantime you can also view the original episode on Lynn’s podcast directly, here.

​For days at the close of September 2024, Hurricane Helene rained sadness and pain for 600 miles across our region with catastrophic impact. In neighboring counties, parts of our own in Tennessee, across the mountains in western North Carolina, and beyond, the magnitude of the destruction is devastating.  Some have described this as a once-in-a-1,000-year event. A Tennessee civil engineer suggested that the only place anywhere in the world, that could withstand rainfall like this without serious consequences is the ocean.

An image keeps returning of a place close my heart. It’s located just a stone’s throw from where my wife and I were married, on the banks of the ancient Nolichucky River, which flows through this region from one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. It’s a place that holds meaning for many communities—especially for those who live there, who have been displaced from their homes, or are experiencing the loss of loved ones. The image is of Unicoi County Hospital, where just a few days ago, staff and patients had to be rescued from its rooftop.

Some years ago, when the hospital was still in the concept stage, I worked with hospital staff, trained volunteers and medical teams on a project with a group of teens. It was a unique arts, heritage and health collaboration that resulted in the hospital receiving a storytelling designation—the only one of its kind in the world.

The capsule was placed inside the hospital as part of its launch, with the goal of being opened in 25 years (2044)—a decision made by the junior board. Everyone involved received a special key, so that when we come back together, it could be open as a group. I placed my key on my sacred home mantel shrine.

Whether or not this time capsule is eventually recovered, I believe what these young people created, has become a story itself, one that is now part of a much larger narrative—another kind of Appalachian time capsule—connected to the values, traditions, and history of this region. It involves the story unfolding right now, of how people, in crisis, are helping one another—delivering food, checking on neighbors, holding someone suffering in their hearts, making gifts and donations, or praying for those impacted. These are the kind of stories that will live in the hearts and memories of a people, for generations to come.

​

​At age 8, witnessing the bias colonial narratives used to teach that some races were superior to others, I led my first protest against imperial oppression, with a classroom walkout.
 
At age 9, inspired by the evil fighting badass Ewoks from Star Wars’ Return of the Jedi, using my dad’s garage tools, I attempted to make a flying bike, in which children like me, and Ewoks, could take on the dark forces of evil empires, and the far-right neo-Nazis skin heads, that hanged out near our school playgrounds.
 
At age 10, I invented a series of futuristic style burglar alarms (and other inventions) and submitted them, one after the other, to BBC’s Tomorrow’s World. A British TV show showcasing cutting edge new inventions…
 
In response to the latter- I received this rejection letter. But thanks to the stories of my freedom fighter grandparents, the wisdom of my refugee immigrant parents, the songs of Bob Marley, and other social justice s/heroes, I’m thankful I was encouraged to still think big, to go complex on my designs, and to pursue the path of big vision systems change thinking, in collaboration with others. In fact, tackling unjust systems, building a better and fairer world, with others - is my community. My Ewoks!
 
Walking home from school with my own 8-year-old daughter, from the ground she picks up a fallen tree branch holding a few leaves. She holds it, looks at me and tells me this is only flag she wants to swear her allegiance to. The flag of nature, she calls it. She wants to change the way the world works. She wants to make a difference. She’s thinking big. So of course, I’m like, you go girl!
 
Never let a passive aggressive rejection letter, or system of suppression, tell you otherwise. Let’s follow the hearts and instincts of our children and the inhibited wonderous change-the-world child that resides in all of us. Let create a world where we can become the story of a world, we wish to see. Think big. Think bold. Now, and for generations to come.