The Power of Rewriting Your Story
For most of my life, I didn’t believe what I lived through was normal — I believed it was my fault. I thought there was something broken in me, something that made me hard to love.
The house was always loud, but not the kind of loud that came from music or laughter. It was the kind of loud that made my body tense before I even knew why. Doors slammed without warning. Voices cracked like whips across every room. I learned early to make myself small — not because anyone told me to, but because it was the only way to survive being too visible.
The story I inherited wasn’t told to me in words, it was written in the way I braced for impact. In the way I flinched at raised voices. It taught me that love was something I had to earn, and no matter how hard I tried,
I was always too sensitive.
Too emotional.
Too much.
And when you grow up believing you are the problem you just learn to survive it. Every step you take, you wonder if it's the wrong one. You make choices based on the fear that if you don’t do it right, you’ll face the consequences.
For years, I believed the brokenness was mine to carry. I thought it was something I deserved, that I was somehow asking for it — as if all the chaos, all the violence, all the manipulation, had been my doing. I blamed myself for the screaming, for the slammed doors, for the fear that always stayed in the corners of my house, my heart.
But that feeling — that sense of being the problem, of being too much was the first thing I needed to question. I had to ask myself: What if it’s not my fault?
The Moment I Realized I Could Rewrite It
It didn’t happen all at once. Healing never does.
But there was a moment, one of those rare times, when I first let myself question the story I’d been living by. It was a late evening, and I was sitting on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by the chaos of moving. Boxes, unopened and waiting, loomed around me like a reminder that I was still untangling the parts of my life that didn’t quite fit.
I had just hung up the phone after another conversation that left me feeling defeated. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. The words that stayed long after the call were familiar, they always were: That never happened. You’re too sensitive. I never did that to you. In some ways, those words were more dangerous than the physical abuse because they burrowed so deep, staying with me long after the argument ended.
Later that night, I picked up my journal, something I had always turned to when I needed to make sense of things, and began writing out everything I’d ever been told. Every word, every phrase, every idea that had been drilled into me since childhood, became part of me. I had internalized it all. I had believed it all.
I spent hours in that space of questioning. I crossed out the beliefs I had carried for so long, the ones that had been spoon-fed to me, the ones that kept me locked in a cage of fear.
It was strange, at first, to see them crossed out. Like removing them from the page was also trying to remove them from my body, my past. But the more I crossed out, the more I began to see the story I had lived wasn’t the only story that could exist.
I didn’t have all the answers. I didn’t even know what the truth would look like yet. But I knew I had to start somewhere. For the first time, I realized that I could take back the pen and rewrite my own story — not the one I was given, but the one I was ready to claim for myself.
The Ongoing Work of Becoming
The thing about rewriting your story is that it doesn’t just happen overnight. It’s not some magical moment of epiphany. It's a daily practice. The things you carry with you — the pain, the fears, the voices in your head — they don’t just fade because you wish them away. They don’t magically vanish the moment you decide to rewrite the narrative.
But each time I looked at those crossed-out beliefs, each time I allowed myself to acknowledge that I wasn’t the problem, I took another step toward healing. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t clean. And it wasn’t always graceful. There were days when I felt like I was standing in a storm, watching my past swirl around me, threatening to pull me back under.
But there were also days when I felt the strength of knowing my past didn’t have to define me anymore. I could still feel the pain of my childhood in the corners of my mind, but I didn’t have to let them control me. I didn’t have to live in the shadow of my trauma.
And slowly, very slowly, I began to feel like I could breathe again.
My Inspiration Corner
To support you wherever you are on your healing journey, here’s one book, one quote, and one song that have helped me feel less alone as:
Book: What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo.
This memoir helped me understand that growing up afraid shapes not just your childhood but your entire sense of self.Quote: “Childhood trauma does not come back as a memory. It comes back as a reaction.” — Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score
Song: Saturn by Sleeping At Last.
This song wraps grief, wonder, and healing into one space. Whenever I listen, it reminds me that even the hardest truths can become softer over time.
A Question for You
What would it look like for you to reclaim your own narrative, to take the pen back and write a story that centers your healing, your growth, and your strength?
Let’s Keep the Conversation Going
I’d love to hear your thoughts. If this essay resonated with you, I hope you’ll share a piece of your story too — the parts you’ve rewritten, the parts you’re still learning to believe.
Thank you for reading,
Debra 💛
My upcoming poetry collection, Sea Salt and Silence, was written from the corners of a childhood shaped by trauma — the kind that leaves you questioning your worth, your voice, and your place in the world. Writing it wasn’t about rewriting the past, but about finally learning to hold it with compassion.
It’s for anyone who’s ever been through childhood trauma and carried the weight of it into adulthood.
Sea Salt and Silence will be released on June 30 — and I hope it finds the version of you that still needs to be seen.
Ways you can support my work:
Sharing my personal essays and liking the ones that connect with you
Ordering my poetry books through Amazon
Checking out my print shop for unique pieces
"when you grow up believing you are the problem you just learn to survive it", what a striking sentence. This is the first thing I read this morning and is so stuck with me now that I have no choice but to ask myself if I'm doing enough to rewrite the narrative of my life. Beautiful work!!
This is so relatable!! You really have put how I’ve seen myself into words, thank you for making the invisible child seen when she’s shed that mask after so long