Creating a cohesive narrative of one’s life is one of the most powerful ways to make sense of what we’ve been through. It allows us to see patterns, understand our survival strategies, and reclaim a sense of agency in a world that often felt chaotic or unsafe. It can be especially challenging when the childhood you need to integrate is fragmented or partially lost. Memories are patchy, experiences feel disconnected, and the pieces of yourself that should fit together can feel like they belong to someone else entirely. Building a narrative in the face of that challenge is hard work, but it’s also a lifeline: a way to gather the scattered parts of yourself, honor your survival, and finally see the meaning you’ve made from a life that was anything but easy. The following is my cohesive narrative:
I came into this world in a neurophysiological storm. My early environments were not the kind where a child learns they’re safe, or wanted, or worthy just because they exist. They were largely places in which safety was conditional and could vanish any moment. Connection was unlikely, and too many times, the people I needed most were the ones I had to protect myself from, because nobody else would. That was my normal.
Even as a kid, my nervous system never got to rest. Every interaction was a calculation of how to avoid someone else’s temper, disappear in plain sight, and keep my body and mind intact enough to get through the next hour or even a minute of severe abuse. I learned that survival meant I had to pay close attention, read people down to the microexpression, and store the information. I also learned not to expect rescue. Because nobody even wanted to know about it.
And yet, I was never the kind to fold. I pushed back. Even as a child, I stood up to people much bigger and more dangerous than me. Sometimes the only thing worse than the risk of retaliation is the cost of staying silent. I learned early that there are moments where you choose: be broken down, or stand your ground. I stood my ground even when it meant I paid for it later.
Adulthood didn’t bring relief; it just raised the stakes. I entered medical, legal, and institutional systems that claimed to exist for protection and care, only to find they ran on the same rules I grew up with: protect the powerful, discredit the harmed, and keep the machine running. When I was harmed in a way that shattered my body and altered my entire life, the worst injury came in the years of neglect, dismissal, and outright obstruction from the people whose job was to help me recover.
For years, I begged for the care I needed. I wasn’t asking for miracles, just for people to do their jobs without hurting me more. Every delay, every missed opportunity for treatment, every arrogant refusal to listen carved deeper into my health. That’s how I ended up with multiple chronic conditions that are largely iatrogenic. That’s how my world became smaller, my pain sharper, and my survival far harder.
And still, I’ve kept building circles of safe people, moments of connection, and art that pulls the trauma out of my body and into the world where it can be seen. I’ve learned how to track what my system needs and to fight like hell to get it. I’ve learned that homeostasis isn’t just a biological concept. It is also the ground for joy, creativity, and love. I’ve learned that it’s not enough to survive; you have to keep your humanity intact, even when you’re frequently dehumanized.
Somewhere along the way, I came to understand what Arthur Miller meant in “After the Fall” about kissing one’s life and taking it into one’s arms. It doesn’t mean I approve of or even accept what happened, but claiming it as mine, all of it, without pretending or cutting pieces away. And even as I hold it, I know I’m not doing this alone. There is hope for me outside myself. It’s in the humanity of the people around me, especially as I help create the conditions for that humanity to emerge more freely. Every time someone meets me with care, listens without defense, or stands beside me in this fight, that hope becomes real.
Now, the fight for justice is the fight of my life. It will not fix what happened, but it’s the one chance I have to stop them from doing it to someone else. It’s the culmination of every survival adaptation I’ve ever made: reading the terrain, holding the line, refusing to disappear. I know powerful forces don’t want this story told. But I’ve lived my entire life in environments that tried to silence me, and I’m still here, still speaking.
I am who I am because of every environment I was given, and because I refused to let them define the limits of what I could do. I’ve carried harm that never should have been, and I’ve carried it with my head up. The same patterns that once kept me alive in danger now fuel the work I do to build safety for myself, others, and the communities I touch.
That’s my story, my cohesive narrative, how I make sense of my life. It’s not tidy, it’s not over, and it’s not one I would wish on anyone. But it’s mine. And as long as I have breath, I will use it to make sure the systems that failed me can’t pretend they didn’t know.
