Some stories are too big to tell. So should you tell them at all

March 1st, 1996. Eastern Express Highway in Mumbai. A Premier Padmini. No seat belt.

I don’t usually begin newsletters like this. And I don’t usually share this story in public forums.

Not because it is secret. But because it is singular.

And singular stories are complicated.

The accident

We were on our way to a site visit as part of an environmental impact assessment study.

I was in the front passenger seat with the windows rolled down. There was no seat belt.

We were trying to overtake a mini lorry. It wasn’t giving space. After a while, it moved slightly to the left. My driver assumed it was finally letting us pass and accelerated.

That’s when we saw them.

Boulders.

Left on the road after some repair work.

Too late.

We hit one, and the car rolled to the other side of the road.

When it stopped, we were upside down. All four wheels were facing the sky.

Because the window was open, my upper body partially came out during the roll. When we landed on the other side of the road, I remember one very specific thought:

Is there traffic coming?

There wasn’t. I crawled out.

The driver was stuck in the steering wheel. With the help of a passerby, I pulled him out. We rushed him to a hospital.

He didn’t survive.

The silence after

I didn’t speak for a few minutes.

I remember sitting there.

Not crying and not shouting. Just silent.

Then I called my professor.

Then came the police report, and the associated formalities.

People from my department came and stayed with me. They waited until everything was done. They took me back to campus.

On the drive back, every small vibration felt like the beginning of another rollover.

For weeks, even the sound of acceleration tightened something inside me.

Doctors helped.

An external counsellor helped.

Time helped.

But that date stayed.

Why I don’t tell this story often

This is a big story, not in scale, but in weight.

It doesn’t fit neatly into a leadership lesson. It doesn’t translate easily into a business takeaway.

It is unusual. Unique. Not widely relatable.

And that is where I struggle.

Because over the years, I’ve learned something about storytelling in professional settings:

If people can’t see themselves in your story, they don’t know where to stand.

Big, singular moments are powerful. But they are often isolating.

When someone hears a story of extreme trauma, the response is usually:

That’s unimaginable.

And that’s precisely the problem.

If it’s unimaginable, it’s also untransferable.

The story vs. The meaning

The accident itself is dramatic. But the meaning inside it isn’t.

What stayed with me over the years was not the visuals.

It was three very ordinary human moments:

• Looking for oncoming traffic even when the world was upside down.
• The silence before making that phone call.
• The people who simply stayed.
• I still keep the driver’s family in my prayers

Those are relatable.

Not the rollover. Not the tragedy. But the human responses around it.

And I’ve realised something important.

When you share a big story, you don’t share the scale.

You share the fragment that connects.

Should we share big stories at all?

I’ve asked myself this often.

Do singular stories belong in professional conversations? Or do they become emotional theatre?

I think the answer lies in intention.

If you are sharing to shock, don’t.

If you are sharing to dramatise, don’t.

If you are sharing to establish authority, don’t.

But if you are sharing to illuminate something universal inside something personal, then maybe.

Because inside that accident were universal themes:

• Control is fragile.
• Life changes in seconds.
• Support systems matter.
• Shock doesn’t always look loud.
• Recovery takes help.

Those themes are not unusual.

Only the context was.

The responsibility of the storyteller

Here’s what I’ve learned about big stories.

They demand restraint. The bigger the moment, the smaller the telling.

When people narrate trauma with too much colour, too much detail, too much intensity, the listener’s brain goes into defence mode.

It distances and disconnects. But when you reduce it to its human core, something different happens.

People don’t react to the spectacle. They respond to the vulnerability.

The accident doesn’t teach a business lesson, but the aftermath does.

It teaches me about:

• The value of people who stay without speaking much.
• The power of quiet support.
• The role of professional help.
• The way fear lingers in the body.

And those are transferable.

How I now think about big story moments

Over the years, I’ve developed a mental filter before sharing something heavy.

I ask:

• What part of this is universal?
• What part of this is just spectacle?
• What does the listener gain from holding this?

If the answer to the third question is unclear, I don’t tell it.

Because in corporate spaces, stories must carry usefulness.

Not drama. Not an emotional display. But usefulness.

Sometimes, usefulness is insight; sometimes, it is perspective; sometimes, it is reminding people that behind titles and performance metrics lie very human nervous systems.

Why I’m sharing this now

Not for shock or sympathy, but because I’ve been thinking about the difference between big stories and relatable stories.

We often believe the most dramatic moment in our lives is the one that defines us.

I’m not sure that’s true.

I think it’s the smaller reactions around that moment that shape us.

The pause. The call. The people who show up. The decision to get back in a car. The willingness to seek help.

If I ever share this story in a room, I won’t focus on the roll.

I’ll focus on the staying.

Because that’s what people can carry with them.

So should you share your big story?

Maybe, but shrink it first, not in importance, but in volume.

Find the human hinge.

The moment inside the moment. That’s the part that travels.

Big stories that stay big often isolate. Big stories reduced to their human core connect.

And connection is what makes a story worth telling.

I don’t tell this story often.

Big stories don’t connect because they are dramatic. They connect when you extract the human part.

If you ever share a big moment from your life, don’t lead with the scale.

Lead with what changed.

That’s the part people can carry.