Brother, someone once asked me if I talk the way I do because I went to Phillips Academy, Andover—the number one ranked prep school in America.

I told them no. I went to Andover because I talk, and think, the way I do.

That answer captures something crucial about narratives. At 14 years old, a kid from the South Bronx with a single teenage mother and a father killed in Vietnam before he could meet me didn't fit the typical Andover profile. But the story I carried about who I was—the narrative my grandfather had built in me about what a Berlack could achieve—made that opportunity possible.

Decades later, after my divorce stripped away my home, my car, and everything I thought defined me, I had to confront something powerful: the story I was telling myself about who I was now would determine everything that came next.

I recently picked up Ta-Nehisi Coates' book "The Message," and one theme stopped me cold. Coates writes about how the narratives we construct—the stories we tell ourselves and the ones society tells us—shape everything we see as possible. He talks about traveling to Senegal, South Carolina, and Palestine, discovering in each place how dominant narratives keep people trapped in limited versions of reality.

Reading those words hit different when you're a divorced man over 40. Because we've got our own narratives working overtime, and most of them are lies.

The Myth of the Failed Man

Here's the dominant narrative divorced men hear: You failed at marriage. You failed as a husband. You're probably failing as a father. You should have it all figured out by 40, but look at you—starting over like some kid in his twenties. The system tells you to just accept less, lower your expectations, and be grateful you're getting anything at all.

Sound familiar?

In "The Message," Coates explores how those in power create stories that keep people compliant with existing systems. When that magistrate told me my inability to survive on half my take-home pay wasn't her problem, she was reinforcing a narrative: divorced fathers are wallets, not people. Our struggles don't matter. Accept your place and keep quiet.

I bought that narrative. For longer than I want to admit.

The Counter-Story You Need to Write

Coates talks about writers who challenged oppressive narratives—people like Ida B. Wells and James Baldwin who gave voice to those marginalized by cultural gatekeepers. These writers didn't accept the dominant story. They wrote a different one based on truth they'd witnessed firsthand.

That's exactly what you need to do after divorce.

The dominant narrative says you're diminished. The truth says you're being rebuilt.

The dominant narrative says starting over at 40 is pathetic. The truth says men who reinvent themselves in their 40s often create their most meaningful chapters.

The dominant narrative says divorce defines you as a failure. The truth says divorce revealed patterns you needed to see, and now you can build something more authentic.

You're not broken. You're being forged.

Walking the Territory

Coates writes about the importance of "walking the land"—seeing the elevation for yourself, the color of the soil, discovering that what looked like a ravine is actually a valley.

Translation for divorced men: You have to explore your own territory. You can't let someone else's map tell you what's possible.

When the magistrate told me my inability to survive on half my income wasn't her problem, I could have accepted the narrative that this was my new ceiling. Instead, I started mapping different territory. I asked myself: What if this setback is my setup for something better?

That's when I discovered something Coates talks about throughout his book: the stories we tell about our circumstances have more power than the circumstances themselves.

The Stories That Built Me

My grandfather used to tell me stories about our family. Not just facts—the spirit of who we were. He told me about his grandfather coming to America from Prussia with nothing but determination. He shared stories about growing up in Harlem in the 1920s, about not being able to cross certain streets because of his skin color. About his 29 years as a private detective and his service in a segregated army.

But he wasn't just entertaining me. He was writing my narrative.

When I tried to steal that bag of potato chips as a kid, he sat me down and said something I never forgot: "Berlacks don't do that." He connected me to a legacy of people who refused to take the easy or illegal path, no matter how hard life got.

My mother wrote a different kind of narrative in me. She was stern and demanding. The type of mom who stood with me as I did homework and reviewed my class notes. When I got a good grade from my teacher, she'd go over my work with a red pen and demand I redo it to HER satisfaction. When I spoke, "dis" had to become "this." "Dose" had to become "those."

I hated doing homework around her. But she was teaching me something deeper than grammar. She was writing a story in my mind: good enough for others isn't good enough for you. The standards you set for yourself matter more than anyone else's approval.

That narrative saved me during my darkest hours after divorce. When I could have accepted the story of "failed man who should be grateful for anything," I heard my mother's voice: "Do it again. You can do better."

Coates writes about how writers have a responsibility to reveal oppressive narratives and construct counternarratives that encourage liberation. As divorced men, we have that same responsibility—to ourselves, to our children, to other men watching our journey.

Rewriting Your After-Divorce Narrative

Here's what I learned: The story you tell yourself right now will determine your reality five years from now.

If you tell yourself you're too old to start over, you'll prove yourself right. If you tell yourself you're building something better, you'll prove that right instead.

If you tell yourself your best days are behind you, they will be. If you tell yourself you're just getting started, you'll find evidence everywhere.

If you tell yourself you're a victim of the system, you'll stay trapped in it. If you tell yourself you're a man learning to navigate new territory, you'll find the path forward.

The divorce happened. That's a fact. But the meaning of that divorce? That's the story you're writing right now.

The Story Continues

In reviewing "The Message," one reader wrote that Coates reminds us "writing is more than a craft; it is a duty, a means of preserving truth, and a path to liberation."

Brother, you're the writer of your next chapter. The divorce closed one book, but you're holding the pen for the next one.

The dominant narrative says men like us should accept less, expect less, and be grateful we're getting anything at all. That narrative keeps you compliant, manageable, and small.

Write a different story.

Write about the man who got knocked down at 40 and built something more authentic than what he had before. Write about the father who used his divorce as a catalyst to become the man his children truly needed. Write about the guy who looked at that rim above his head and decided it wasn't a ceiling—it was a target.

Coates writes about the urgent need to untangle ourselves from destructive myths and embrace the liberating power of difficult truths. The difficult truth is that divorce happened, and it hurt, and it cost you. The liberating truth is that you get to decide what happens next.

Your story isn't over. You're just writing the comeback chapter.

And brother, comeback chapters are always the best ones.