Owning Your Story

My story begins in the shadows of neglect, abuse, and abandonment. I was a child left to navigate a world that felt harsh, unpredictable, and unsafe—a world where love, safety, and belonging were elusive concepts, not guarantees. Home should have been a refuge, a place of warmth and protection. Instead, it often felt like a battleground, where I had to fend for myself, shield myself from harm, and figure out how to survive in an environment that offered little security or comfort. I learned early on that being vulnerable was dangerous and that no one was coming to rescue me. I would have to save myself.

That sense of invisibility followed me into the classroom. Growing up as a brown girl in a predominantly white world, I quickly realized that school wasn’t a place where I would find affirmation or recognition either. At home, I was often unseen and unheard, and it was no different at school. Despite being bright, curious, and capable, I went unnoticed. Teachers didn’t see my potential. No one pulled me aside to discuss my future or encouraged me to think beyond what I knew. There were no conversations about college, no acknowledgment of my capabilities. I wasn’t one of the kids that teachers poured their energy into. Instead, I was placed—literally—at the back of the room. And metaphorically, that’s where I remained: pushed to the margins of every space I occupied.

It wasn’t just the physical placement that stung; it was the message beneath it. The silence, the lack of encouragement, and the absence of anyone advocating for me compounded into a singular narrative: I wasn’t worthy of being seen, heard, or valued. I internalized that message, weaving it into the fabric of my identity. If no one saw me, then maybe I didn’t matter. If no one believed in me, then perhaps I wasn’t worthy of belief. The world at home and school seemed to confirm that I was insignificant, a person whose voice and presence didn’t count.

This erasure wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was quiet and steady—a slow erosion of my sense of self. Each day that I went unnoticed chipped away at my confidence, creating a hollow space inside me that I would spend years trying to fill. I became a child who stopped expecting anyone to notice her, who learned to carry her burdens in silence because asking for help seemed pointless. No one had shown me that I mattered, so I stopped believing I did.

One of the first lessons I learned as a child was that relying on others could lead to disappointment and hurt. I internalized the belief that I would be a burden if I needed too much or asked for help. I carried the weight of unmet needs on my small shoulders, telling myself that if no one would take care of me, I would take care of myself. Fierce independence became my armor—the one thing I believed could keep me safe.

By the time I was a teenager, I had fully embraced the idea that asking for help was dangerous. I had learned to expect nothing from anyone, which meant I wouldn’t have to endure the sting of rejection or the humiliation of being seen as too needy. I became resourceful, figuring out how to navigate the world on my own. I made doctor’s appointments, found ways to earn money, and handled my schoolwork without intervention. There was a stubborn pride in doing everything myself, but there was also fear beneath it. If I let someone in, I risked them seeing how much I needed and longed to be cared for. That vulnerability was far too risky, so I closed the door on it entirely.

But independence wasn’t enough. There was another layer of coping—hustling for my worth. Looking back now, I can see that being unseen and unheard planted the seeds of my relentless drive to achieve. If no one would recognize my worth, I would prove it to them in ways they couldn’t ignore. I believed that I could prove my value through relentless achievement, performance, success, and being the absolute best, most perfect person. My life became a checklist of accomplishments. I took on more than anyone could reasonably handle, excelling as a student, athlete, mother, sister, daughter, and therapist. I said yes to everything, constantly proving that I was strong, capable, and deserving of love and admiration. 

Hustling wasn’t just about achievement. It was also about being the hero in everyone else’s story. I wasn’t just striving for success; I was striving to be the good guy, the one people could rely on to fix things, solve problems, and rescue them from their struggles. I wanted to be seen as indispensable in their lives, the one who showed up when no one else did. There was a desperate need to be valued and appreciated, to feel like I mattered in ways I hadn’t felt growing up.

I became the rescuer, even when it came at my own expense. I took on other people’s burdens, often carrying more than I should because being the hero made me feel worthy. If I could solve their problems, maybe they would love me. Maybe they would finally see me. But that hero role came with a price. I ignored my own needs and limits, pouring myself out for others without ever allowing anyone to pour back into me. I had convinced myself that to be loved, I had to earn it. And the way to earn it was through constant service and sacrifice.

The hustle was exhausting. It never felt like enough, no matter how much I achieved or how many people I helped. The admiration I longed for never seemed to come—or maybe it did, and I was too closed off to receive it because I had never learned how to accept praise. Growing up, I had heard only criticism—harsh, biting words that cut into my self-worth. My father’s voice echoed in my head, calling me a “fat ass” or asking, “Are you stupid?” The idea that I could be worthy of admiration or love felt foreign, almost absurd.

The Cost of Hustling and the Journey to Healing

Looking back, I see how these two coping strategies— fierce independence and hustling—stemmed from the same deep ache within me. I was searching for something I couldn’t quite name at the time—a sense of belonging and being enough. I wanted to carve out my value to earn my place in the world, but I did so by locking myself into patterns of relentless doing and proving. I believed I had to earn my worth through achieving perfection and becoming indispensable to others. But that pursuit kept me focused on what I could accomplish rather than who I already was. I had wrapped my identity so tightly around what I did that I lost sight of my intrinsic value—the worth that had always been mine, quietly waiting beneath the weight of old wounds.

The hustle that had once propelled me forward and given me purpose eventually became my greatest burden. The relentless pursuit of achievement came at a steep cost—I was physically worn down, emotionally depleted, and spiritually adrift. What I hadn’t realized then was how fiercely independent I had become to shield myself from disappointment. The very independence I clung to, the refusal to lean on anyone or ask for help, left me deeply uncomfortable with receiving. Whether it was help, support, or love, I would resist it, dismissing it as unnecessary or undeserved. My resistance only reinforced the painful narrative I had carried since childhood—that no one valued me enough to care, that I wasn’t worthy of being loved or supported unless I earned it. The walls I built to protect myself from hurt became the very barriers that kept love and connection out.

I pushed my body to its limits, convinced that my worth was tied to how much I could do, how hard I could work, and how perfect I could be. But there’s a cost to driving yourself relentlessly without pause. Over time, my body began to break down, forcing me to confront the consequences of my hustle. I spent over a decade undergoing more than a dozen surgeries to repair the damage I had inflicted on my joints—overuse injuries from years of pushing too hard, too fast, without ever letting myself rest. I ran through the pain, lifted through injury, and powered through exhaustion because slowing down felt like a failure. My body was crying out for mercy, but I refused to listen.

Hustling wasn’t just about proving my worth; it became how I navigated the world. I believed that if I could achieve more, be better, and push harder, I could finally silence the voice inside me that whispered I wasn’t enough. But the harder I worked, the more I realized that I wasn’t running toward a destination—I was trapped in an endless loop, like a hamster on a wheel. The wheel kept spinning, but no matter how fast I ran, I was always stuck in the same place—chasing a version of myself that would finally feel worthy, but never quite reaching her.

This relentless drive wasn’t just exhausting; it was isolating. The more I pushed myself, the more disconnected I became—from my body, emotions, and the people around me. I thought I had to earn love, respect, and belonging through sheer force of will. Deep down, I carried a painful belief that who I was, at my core, wasn’t enough—that I had to do to be worthy of being. I didn’t realize then that my inability to slow down and receive was rooted in the very wound I had been trying to escape all along. I was so busy proving I was capable that I never let anyone show me that I didn’t have to prove a thing to be loved.

Eventually, my body had the final say. Years of pushing too hard, too fast, without pause caught up with me, and my relentless drive to prove my worth left a trail of damage that I could no longer ignore. Over a decade, surgery after surgery became my new reality—each one a painful consequence of the way I had been moving through the world. My body was breaking down, forcing me to confront the truth: this way of living no longer served me. The very strategies that had helped me survive and once given me purpose and direction were now costing me everything—my health, energy, and spirit. I couldn’t power through this anymore. My body demanded a different approach.

What began as a physical breakdown became an invitation to surrender, to let go of the hustle that had defined me for so long. There was no choice but to slow down. I had to trust that there was another way to be in the world that didn’t require constant striving and achieving to feel worthy of love and belonging. And in that surrender, something began to shift. The breaking down of my body opened the door to a different kind of strength—a strength rooted not in doing, but in being. It was one of the pivotal moments in my life, a crack in the armor that allowed the light of healing and transformation to seep in.

This wasn’t a surrender born of defeat but a surrender born of necessity—a realization that I couldn’t keep living in constant battle with myself. The surgeries, the downtime, the forced stillness—they became a mirror, reflecting back all the ways I had been disconnected from my body and spirit. For the first time, I had to sit with myself, without distractions or achievements to lean on. And in that stillness, I began to see the parts of me that had long been buried beneath the weight of childhood wounds, unworthiness, and the need to prove my value. It was a reckoning but also a softening—a gentle reminder that there was more to me than my accomplishments.

This pivot was painful, no doubt. It was hard to relinquish the armor I had built, the independence I had clung to fiercely. But as I began to let go, I started to understand that transformation doesn’t come from pushing harder or achieving more—it comes from allowing, trusting, and making space for something new to emerge. My body had forced me to stop, but my soul was asking me to heal. It was time to do the deeper work, to finally let go of the belief that I had to earn my worth through perfection and performance.

My transformational journey began when I stopped hustling, learned to trust, and started healing. It wasn’t an overnight shift, nor was it easy to confront the deep wounds I had buried beneath my relentless drive for perfection. For so long, hustling was my attempt to earn my place in the world. But the hustle was never enough. No matter how much I achieved, how many people I helped, or how hard I worked, I still carried the deep-seated belief that I wasn’t inherently worthy—that I had to earn love, respect, and belonging. It became a never-ending cycle of proving, striving, and pushing myself to the brink, hoping that one day I would feel like I was enough.

And that hustle took a toll. My body began to break down from the relentless pace I had imposed on myself. My body forced me to confront the truth that I could no longer push myself to exhaustion in the name of proving my worth. The breakdown of my body wasn’t a punishment—it was a wake-up call. It forced me to slow down, surrender, and trust that there was another way to live. Healing required me to let go of the belief that my value was tied to what I did and instead lean into the truth that my worth was inherent. I didn’t have to hustle for it or prove it. I just had to believe it. My worth existed simply because I did.

Healing also forced me to confront my fierce independence—a coping strategy that had once served me but was now keeping me isolated and disconnected. Letting go of that counter-dependence meant learning to receive—to accept help, love, and care without feeling ashamed or uncomfortable. It meant softening around my edges and trusting that I didn’t have to do everything alone. It was a terrifying process, but it was also liberating. I began to see that the Universe had supported me all along, even when I didn’t recognize it. And as I leaned into that trust, I discovered a new kind of strength—not one born from self-reliance, but from knowing that I was held by something greater than myself.

Healing also required me to revisit my childhood wounds with love and compassion. I began to see that the neglect, abandonment, and emotional pain I had experienced weren’t just sources of trauma—they were profound teachers. They showed me where I needed to reclaim my power, where I needed to set boundaries, where I needed to forgive myself for carrying burdens that were never mine to carry, and where I needed to learn to love and have compassion for myself. My childhood shaped me, but it didn’t define me. I had the power to heal, grow, and rewrite my story.

Softening around my fierce independence and my hustle didn’t mean abandoning strength or ambition. It meant redefining what strength truly looked like. It required me to strip away the layers of armor I had built to survive—armor that had once protected me but now kept me disconnected from my own truth. As I let go of the need to prove my worth through independence and achievement, I was left with a question that demanded an answer: If I am not my accomplishments, my roles, or my stubborn self-sufficiency, then who am I?

Answering that question required a soul-deep reconciliation with my past. It was no longer about what I could do but about who I had always been underneath it all. I realized that my journey wasn’t about becoming something more but about uncovering what had been there all along. And that meant confronting the parts of my story I had once tried to hide or outrun. The stories of neglect, abandonment, and pain. The stories of hustle and fierce independence. All of it was part of me, and owning those pieces became the key to unlocking the next stage of my healing.

But it wasn’t just about facing the hard truths. It was about seeing the gifts born from those truths. Resilience was born from the times I was forced to stand on my own. Strength emerged from every challenge I endured. Resourcefulness came from navigating a world that offered little guidance. And compassion and kindness grew from knowing what it feels like to be unseen and unheard. Every wound and scar had shaped the beautiful gifts I now carried within me.

Owning my story wasn’t just about accepting the pain of my past—it was about claiming the fullness of who I had become because of it. I wasn’t broken or damaged; I was whole. My experiences have forged wisdom, tenacity, and confidence. They had taught me how to love deeply, to show up for others, and to navigate life’s complexities with grace. These gifts weren’t accidental—they were born from the very stories I had once tried to deny.

And so, I began to see that owning my story wasn’t just an act of healing—it was an act of self-celebration. It allowed me to honor the incredible being I had become through it all. The world had once tried to tell me that I was not enough, but my story told a different truth: I am more than enough. My worth doesn’t come from what I achieve but from who I am—resilient, wise, compassionate, and strong. These gifts were always mine, waiting to be fully embraced.

Owning my story became a radical act of self-liberation. It was a declaration that I wasn’t my wounds, achievements, or past. It was a statement of truth: I am worthy simply because I exist.

And in that truth, I found freedom.

Transformational Shifts

One of the most profound shifts in my journey came when I began to trust that life wasn’t happening to me — it was happening for me. For years, I resisted the painful moments, seeing them as evidence that I had simply been dealt a bad hand. But everything changed the moment I surrendered to the possibility that life always had my back — even in the darkest times. I began to see life’s challenges not as random misfortunes but as invitations to grow, heal, and evolve. I understood that I wasn’t navigating this life alone. I was being guided by a universal intelligence that turns even the most challenging experiences into opportunities for transformation. Trusting life didn’t make it easier; it made it sacred. It taught me that every moment — joy, sorrow, love, loss — was part of my becoming.

The second transformative shift was realizing that we always have a choice. No matter what life places in front of us, we have the power to choose how we respond. For much of my life, I chose to hustle for my worth, sacrificing my own needs to meet the expectations of others. But everything began to shift when I understood that I could choose differently. I chose healing over hustling. I chose to own my story rather than let it own me. I chose to trust life’s unfolding, even when the path was unclear or painful. And here’s the most powerful truth: you have that same choice. You can choose to let your wounds shape you, not define you. You can choose to rewrite the stories you’ve carried, reclaim your worth, and create a life that reflects your truth. The power to transform your life begins when you choose yourself.

A Call to Action: Taking the First Step

If my story resonates with you, I invite you to take the first step toward owning your story. That first step will look different for everyone. It might mean reaching out to a therapist or coach for support, journaling about the parts of your life you’ve been avoiding, or simply acknowledging that you’re ready to make a change.

Whatever your first step is, know this: You are resilient. You can handle and overcome anything life throws your way. You have personal power. You can choose how you move through life. And life — even in its most challenging moments — always guides you toward growth, healing, and evolution.

Your wounds are not your weakness. They are your wisdom. Your story matters. And when you own it, you reclaim your power, worth, and freedom.