I struggle between wanting to be fully transparent, and letting go of who I was and “my story”. It used to be that every time I shared my story, I was shedding a little more of the pain and the trauma I had been through. It seemed as if every time I let others in, I was connecting and helping them through their pain by showing them my own.

This year was a year of re-birth, and at some point sharing my story became redundant; even though my past helped others with what they were dealing with presently, to me it was holding me back. I kept coming back to the same fears, the same mistakes, the same problems that I had spent a decade fighting and healing through because it was attached to me.

​I began to identify as my story; I was a young immigrant and leaving my home-country un-willingly made it so I carried a hateful grudge in my heart for years, I was bullied before I understood the concept of being un-kind, I lost too many family members too far away and the pain was too great to deal with, I couldn’t measure up to the magnitude of who my older sisters had become so starving myself and drugs seemed to fill that empty hole clinical depression had carved inside of me, having no Idea who I was culturally because I didn’t really belong to any country, anxiety and constant panic attacks after being robbed at gun point, leaving the love of my life and being manipulated into an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship, after 12 years finally being diagnosed with stage four endometriosis and pelvic floor disfunction, having two laparoscopic surgeries in two years, going through chemical menopause, developing neuropathy, being diagnosed with fibromyalgia and Ehlers danlos syndrome, and being bitten by a dog I loved dearly.

But the thing about my story is, that it only shares the negative and painful times in my life, not once do I mention the love my grandparents had for me, the farm I grew up on during my time in Brazil, riding my grandfathers shoulders, eating my grandmothers food, how my older sister though she was only 14 took the role of being my caretaker because our parents were doing their best to make sure we had food on the table, and that we would never want for anything in this new country, how I came in third in a spelling bee even though I had only been in the US for 2 years, how I’ve had the same best friend for 13 years and regardless of the shit I’ve put her through she has always been there to love and support me and move through state lines multiple times to be near me, how I met the love of my life and he’s loved me through everything I’ve wanted to be, every goal I’ve had, and every mistake I’ve ever made, how holding my niece makes me feel so alive and I thank god every day I didn’t die when I took all those pills, how much my dogs make me feel like here’s hope in the universe, how i’m lucky I have a practice that brings me home to my body every single time, and I have teachers who are my best friends and they nurture my soul and starve my ego, how I truly… finally realize, that I’ve had everything this entire time.

So to some point, yes I do believe “Your story” can be a healing part to trauma or pain that you may have endured in your life, as long as you share the positives as often as you share the tragedies. However if ten years later you are still telling the same story, who have you become? If in ten years all that matters is who you were a decade ago, what have you spent this time doing? have you truly healed? Or just held on tightly to the pain until it completely consumed you? Do not let your story define you, yes it will shape you, but it is not all that you have to offer. There is only so much damage you can repair on your own, and sometimes telling your story can become counterproductive and even damaging to the growth of who you could become if you could allow yourself to heal. Healing is painful, it is not easy, and it takes time.