The pain of the handcuffs collaborating with the unbearable heat in the back of the police car put my brain into overload and sent me back in time to a little girl in Mexico -pulled out of bed, beaten, thrown under a kitchen table, and freezing by the door winter’s draft on a pile of urine-soaked burlap sacks. Sobbing, struggling to breathe and trying to comprehend my current nightmarish scenario, I realized my life was again, out of control. Millennium-old myths, societal laws, and forces beyond my control had conspired to knock me off my path into an earthly hell, where unbeknownst to me, I was to dwell for the next three years. My choices were clear-I had to negotiate the Labyrinth, face the Minotaur -and win. Stories weave our life and through them we make meaning of our existence. Yet, there is a fine line between experiencing the story and believing it. It takes constant vigilance to prevent their internalization.