Living in Your Story

You think the past is behind you.
You’ve done the work. You’re showing up. You’re successful. You’re grounded.

And then – without warning – you find yourself in a moment that doesn’t match your reaction.
A small request feels like a vise grip.
A pause in conversation sends you into a panic and makes you question if you have said something wrong.
A perfectly reasonable opportunity feels too risky and unsafe.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.
You rationalize a momentary freeze. You call it overthinking. You push through.

But your body knows better.
Because your body remembers everything your mind tries to forget.

You don’t always see trauma coming.
It doesn’t scream – it whispers through your choices, your silence, your sudden doubt, hesitation, or pullback.

It slips in quietly, disguised as perfectionism, people-pleasing, or performing.

It doesn’t surface when you believe you are in danger; it shows up when you are trying to do something brave, like speaking your truth, taking up space, or trying something new. Moments that call for courage and visibility are often the very moments when the old story tightens its grip.

I used to think I was just being cautious. Conscientious. Strategic. But underneath that practiced composure was something else entirely – a body bracing for impact that never came, a nervous system reliving an old script in a present moment.

This IS trauma in the present tense. Not because something new has happened, but because something old still lives in our nervous system, waiting for the moment to reassert itself.

The stories I carried into adulthood – the ones about not being worthy, about being too much, about being too needy – still live beneath the surface.
Even now.
Even here.

And when our stories get activated, we don’t shut down completely.
We lose access to our full selves.
We get quiet. Careful. Composed. We perform competently while something inside us folds in on itself.

This is how the past hijacks the present.
It doesn’t shout.
It whispers.

It tells you to wait, to shrink, to soften your brilliance until it’s palatable.
It convinces you that safety lies in silence, that visibility is too risky, that now is not the time.

But here’s what I’ve learned – if we don’t recognize when the past is speaking for us, we will keep handing it the mic.

The Stories We Tell

Most of us are walking around with one or two core narratives that were written long before we may even remember.

They usually form in childhood, in response to something emotionally significant, sometimes traumatic. We take what happened and try to make sense of it, and the meaning we give it becomes a story. A script. Something we make up about ourselves (I’m too much or I’m not enough), a story about others (People can’t be trusted), or a story about the world (Love is conditional, I have to earn my place, It’s not safe).

Whatever it is, it becomes the lens through which we view and experience the world. The story becomes so familiar that it stops feeling like a story and starts feeling like the truth.

That was true for me.

One of the oldest stories I carried was that I am not worthy of love or nurturing. 

That story took root in the quiet neglect – when my parents dropped me off at my grandmother’s with no change of clothes, no toothbrush, and no sense of when they’d return. It deepened every time I walked nearly two miles home alone as a kindergartner, when there wasn’t enough food in the house, no books or toys to spark curiosity, and no one ever asked, “How was your day?” These everyday omissions became evidence that my needs didn’t matter – and neither did I.

Not just that I was unloved, but that something about me made me unworthy of love, taken care of, or chosen.

This story became part of the very fabric of my being. No one told me directly that I was unworthy. I learned it through their actions – through silence, through absence, and through the way my needs were met with either dismissal or rage.

That story didn’t stay in childhood. It followed me well into my adulthood, and it followed me everywhere.

It became the lens through which I saw myself, others, and the world. And from that one core narrative, a complex web of subplots began to form.

I am invisible.

I am unlovable and unwanted.

My needs are a burden, and if I ask for too much, people will leave.
I am too much, and if I take up space, I’ll be punished or shamed.
I can’t trust anyone because they won’t be there when I need them.

But it didn’t stop there.

I dimmed my joy so no one would think I was showing off.
I swallowed my feelings so I wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
I held back my voice, my truth, my brilliance – afraid they would take up too much space.
Afraid I would take up too much space.

Because I learned early on that being myself was too much.

My very existence felt like it needed careful calibration.
Don’t inconvenience anyone.
Don’t make waves.
Don’t be too loud, too emotional, too real.
Don’t risk rejection.
Don’t risk being seen.

This story wasn’t limited to one part of my life – it colored the whole of it.

In relationships, I stayed small and reserved.

At work, I overperformed so no one could question my worth.

With friends, I rarely shared when I was struggling because I didn’t want to be judged or perceived as “too needy.”

Even in motherhood, I carried guilt any time I prioritized myself.

These behaviors didn’t look like trauma. They looked like generosity. Like competence. Like self-sufficiency. Like strength. And underneath it all were survival strategies I didn’t realize I was following. 

Shrink myself to stay safe.
Hide my struggles to avoid shame.
Keep the peace so no one rejected or abandoned me.
Earn my worth by taking care of everyone and needing nothing.

Signs You’re Stuck in a Trauma Response without Realizing It

You don’t have to be in danger for your body to respond like it’s under threat.

Sometimes trauma lives in the way your body tenses when you open your inbox. Or in the way your heart pounds when you see a calendar invite from someone you think has it in for you.
Or in the way you say “yes” with a smile, while everything in you is screaming “no.”

Most people think of trauma as a past event. But trauma is really about the imprint that event leaves on your nervous system and how your body continues to respond as if the danger is still present, even when it’s not.

We all have patterned ways of surviving what we believe is a threat to our survival. The nervous system doesn’t need your permission to protect you – it just does.

And often, trauma responses can look like everyday behavior:

• Fight doesn’t always mean yelling or lashing out. Sometimes it looks like control – tightly managed schedules, rigid standards, micromanaging everything and everyone so you never have to feel helpless again.

• Flight isn’t always about running away. It can show up as overworking, constantly staying busy, or never slowing down long enough to feel what’s underneath. It’s productivity used as protection.

• Freeze isn’t limited to paralysis. It may appear as indecision, mental fog, or a lack of focus, as if you're moving through your day on autopilot. You’re doing all the things, but you’re not fully in any of them.

• And fawn isn’t just about being nice. It’s the instinct to abandon yourself to preserve connection. It’s reading the room before you speak, softening your truth to avoid conflict, and becoming whoever someone needs you to be so they won’t leave.

These trauma responses are old, protective, and unconscious. They were brilliant adaptations at some point in your life – ways to survive what felt unbearable. But when they become your default way of moving through the world, they begin to cost you.

Your voice. Your truth. Your energy. Your joy.

Sometimes the most challenging part is recognizing that you’re in a trauma response.
Because it’s so familiar, they just feel like you.

You don’t notice the clenched jaw, the shallow breath, the internal checklists you keep going over and over. You may only notice you’re drained or exhausted. You feel joyless, empty, and disconnected. You’re trying so hard and still feeling like it’s not enough.

But your body remembers the original trauma, and it’s doing everything it can to make sure it never happens again, at whatever cost.

How Trauma Scripts Show Up in Relationships

When we live in a trauma story, our nervous system doesn't just brace for danger – it filters connection through that lens.

In my case, the story that I was invisible or unwanted made me hyper-sensitive to any perceived dismissal. If my partner didn’t text, I wasn’t just disappointed – I was abandoned. If she didn’t ask how I was doing, I wasn’t just annoyed – I felt like I didn’t matter. The adult part of me knew she was just distracted or busy, but the younger part of me, the one who had been left too many times before, was back in the driver’s seat.

This is how trauma stories affect intimacy. They rob us of presence. We become preoccupied with anticipating harm, proving our worth, or protecting ourselves. We stop relating to the person in front of us and start reacting to the story inside us.

And when both partners are living from unspoken stories, the cycle intensifies – each person confirming the other’s fear without meaning to.

When the Story Didn’t Start With You

Sometimes the stories of trauma we carry are not ours, alone.

For many of us, especially those of us who are people of color or the first in our families to break cycles, the story didn’t start with us.

Some stories that live in our bodies were passed down.

We inherited them in silence, in stares, or warnings that sounded like love but were shaped by fear – Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t make waves. Don’t draw too much attention to yourself. Work twice as hard. Be twice as good. Stay grateful. Don’t ask for more.

These were survival codes.  They were born from generations who endured violence, erasure, migration, poverty, assimilation, and systemic injustice. They shaped what our parents taught us, what our grandparents endured, and the way we learned to measure our worth.

We didn’t choose these patterns, but we live inside them.

The pressure to succeed.
The fear of failure.
The expectation to be strong, silent, self-sacrificing, and unshakable.

These aren’t just personal tendencies.
They’re cultural stories – passed down through DNA.

We carry the unspoken grief of generations.

These collective scripts live in our bodies.

They’re not just personal – they’re cultural.

But what your ancestors survived does not have to be the blueprint for how you live.

You are allowed to take up space, ask for more, and want a life that doesn’t require you to betray yourself to belong. This is the sacred work of breaking patterns. Of remembering what they endured – and choosing a new way forward, in their honor.

So if you find yourself stuck, it may not have started with you. It’s a wisdom your body inherited, designed to keep you safe.

Why You’re Burned Out, Numb or Stuck at Work (And Don’t Know Why)

What it really means to be stuck in survival mode and how to reclaim your life from it.

It’s easy to blame burnout on your workload, imposter syndrome on a lack of confidence, or stagnation on low motivation or boredom. But so often, what we call overthinking, exhaustion, or being in a holding pattern… is actually trauma. Unhealed. Unseen. Unnamed.

Trauma travels with you—into your goals, your relationships, your leadership. It shows up in the spaces where you’re trying to prove your worth, be seen, and stay safe.

It’s like driving with one foot on the gas—performing, pushing, perfecting—and the other on the brake—second-guessing, hesitating, holding back. You may be moving forward, but with friction in every step. And underneath it all, you’re carrying the weight of a hundred-pound backpack—old pain, protective wiring, inherited fear—slowing you down as you achieve. Trauma doesn’t necessarily stop your success. But it makes you work twice as hard to get there, and when you do, you’re too depleted to feel it. The joy, the pride, the sense of arrival slips through your fingers. Not because it isn’t real, but because your nervous system is still bracing for impact.

This isn’t a flaw. It’s your nervous system doing its job. Being strategic. Overprepared. Guarded. Likeable. It’s not conscious—it’s wiring—a survival pattern built long ago.

You’re not broken. You’re just carrying the weight of a past that taught you how to endure, not how to exhale and let go.

You keep going because stopping doesn’t feel like an option. You show up. You check the boxes. But you feel… empty. Present, but not fully alive. So used to bracing for what could go wrong, you can’t feel what’s going right.

This is survival mode. Your body is here, but your emotional self is still hiding behind a wall it built to protect you.

Survival asks, “What do I need to get through this?”
Living asks, “What do I need to feel fully here?”

You can’t choose differently until you see the story you’ve been living in. But once you do? That’s when survival begins to loosen its grip—and life begins to return to you.

How to Reset Your Nervous System When You’re Triggered

Here are a few tools that can help you interrupt the script:

1. Name What’s Happening

Start by noticing without judgment. Are you in fight (tension, irritability, control)? Flight (anxiety, overactivity)? Freeze (numbness, shutdown)? Fawn (over-accommodation, self-abandonment)? You don’t need to change it, just name it. Naming helps your nervous system recognize that you’re safe enough to observe instead of react. Then ask yourself, “What story am I telling myself right now?”

2. Orient to the Present Moment

Look around the room. Gently turn your head and eyes to notice your surroundings, then anchor yourself in the here and now by finding:

·   5 things you can see (look around and name them slowly)

·   4 things you can feel or touch (your clothes, a surface, your skin, the chair beneath you or the ground underneath your feet)

·   3 things you can hear (near or far – let yourself really listen)

·   2 things you can smell (or something familiar you remember the scent of)

·   1 thing you can taste (even if it’s just the inside of your mouth)

This practice gently reminds your body: You are here. You are now. You are safe.

3. Ground Through Sensation

Feel your feet pressing into the floor.
Sit upright and let your spine lengthen.
Press your palms together or place one hand on your heart and one on your belly.
These small anchors bring your awareness back to the body, back to safety.

4. Move What’s Stuck

If your body feels frozen or restless, movement can be a release.
Shake out your hands. Stand up and stretch. Walk slowly around the room. Roll your shoulders. Bounce on your toes.

5. Breathe – Low and Slow

Try an exhale-focused breath–inhale for four counts, exhale for six.
Or just sigh it out. Let the sound carry some of the weight.

The body responds more to exhalation than inhalation – it’s how we signal “it’s safe now.” This is the quickest and simplest way to reset your nervous system.

6. Offer Yourself Kindness and Compassion

Place a hand where it hurts – your chest, your belly, your throat.
Speak gently to yourself, even if the words feel unfamiliar – You’re not broken. This is just a pattern. You’re allowed to feel safe. You’re allowed to be here.

What Comes Next

Recognizing that you’re in a story is the first step.

Next month, we’ll explore how to own the story – not with shame, but with power. And then we’ll talk about how to rewrite it in a way that frees you.

Because you are not your story, and you do have the power to change how it ends.