We all want to be the hero of our own story. After all, if we’re not the protagonist in our own life, who is? I wish that question had a simple answer, but what I’ve learned is that real life stories rarely hold categories of either exclusive good or evil.
Developmental trauma, winding its insidious and pervasive tentacles into the details of one’s life, makes determining the plot points of a story that much harder. When you are left to analyze wreckage left in the wake of trying to survive, it’s easy to look at your life, with all its complications, and decide you’re the obvious villain. Shame and blame are easier to metabolize than grief. We learn early on that it’s easier to demonize our own failures than admit those you expected to be the heroes didn’t show up.
So much of our analysis depends on our vantage point. Do we step into the shoes of our younger self and honor her heroic drive to survive? Do we look at that version of ourselves with compassion and recognize what it cost h…