I have been wrestling with something lately that keeps me up at night. As someone who believes deeply in the power of stories, I find myself caught in an uncomfortable tension. On one hand, I know that stories work — they stick in our minds, they move us to action, they help us make sense of complex information, they empower us to make decisions. But on the other hand, I cannot shake the feeling that somewhere along the way, we might be crossing a line between illuminating truth and obscuring it through the way we tell stories.

The question haunts me: When we craft narratives around data and facts, are we simply making them more digestible, or are we subtly manipulating what is true and what is real?

I watch presentations where numbers are dressed up in compelling characters and dramatic arcs, and while part of me admires the skill, another part wonders what is being lost in the translation. The raw, unvarnished truth of those figures — boring as it might be — carries its own weight and meaning, I believe.

I understand why storytelling has become so central to communication. Our brains are wired for narrative. We remember the story of the struggling startup founder better than we remember his company’s quarterly revenue figures. We connect with the journey of a patient through treatment more than we connect with clinical trial statistics. News programs on TV and video platforms capitalize on these: “Mukha ng balita” — the human face of the news. It is all because stories create emotional bridges that pure data simply cannot build. It is simply responding to how human understanding and memory work.

But here is where I get uncomfortable: There is a fine line between making facts accessible and making them convenient. When we smooth over the messy contradictions in data to create a cleaner narrative, when we emphasize certain numbers while downplaying others that do not fit our story, when we choose metaphors that steer audiences toward predetermined conclusions — at what point does storytelling become a form of deception, even if it is well-intentioned?

The responsibility weighs heavily on me. Every time I choose which details to highlight and which to leave in the background, I am making decisions that could shape how someone understands reality. When business results are disappointing, the temptation is strong to find a story that makes them seem less dire, to focus on future potential rather than present struggles. But doesn’t the audience deserve to grapple with the full complexity of those disappointing numbers?

I think that the most effective storytellers are those who can make even the uncomfortable truths compelling — which means they are honest to the stories that the numbers and facts tell. Instead of hiding behind rose-colored narratives, they lean into the difficulty and the negative. They find ways to help audiences engage with the bad news, the contradictory evidence, or the inconvenient facts. They use their narrative skills not to distract from reality but to help people confront what is real more fully.

This is where I think the real, effective and truthful storytelling lies — not in making everything sound good, but in making everything matter. A skilled storyteller can help an audience understand why declining market share is worth paying attention to, why disappointing clinical trial results still contain valuable insights, why budget shortfalls reveal important truths about organizational priorities.

The story does not eliminate the sting of hard realities; it helps us feel why those realities are significant.

At the end of the day, we storytellers wield real power. Our narratives shape how people see themselves, their organizations, and their world. With that power comes the responsibility to serve truth first. The most profound stories are not the ones that make audiences feel better — they’re the ones that make audiences understand better.

And sometimes, the most important story to tell is the one that no one wants to hear, delivered in a way that no one can ignore.