Finding Me

Summary

Why it matters: Reclaiming your past is the only way to find true power

Have you ever achieved a major milestone and felt like a complete fraud, as if your success was just a mask hiding a broken inner reality? We often think that reaching the top of our professional field will finally silence the insecurities from our childhood. But here’s the thing: you can’t outrun your past, no matter how many trophies you collect or how much money you put in the bank.

Integrating the most painful parts of your origin story is the only way to stop just surviving and start truly living. We spend so much energy trying to escape our beginnings that we end up hollowed out by the chase. Real power comes when you stop running and finally invite your younger, wounded self to sit at the table with the person you’ve become.

It’s a brutal process because we’ve been taught to bury the 'ugly' bits of our lives to keep up appearances. Yet, by trying to distance ourselves from our darkest moments, we lose access to the very resilience that made us strong in the first place. Let’s look at how to reclaim your history so it becomes your fuel rather than your anchor.

You'll discover:

• why professional accolades often fail to heal deep-seated personal trauma
• how to transform childhood survival mechanisms into adult psychological strengths
• the power of radical acceptance in dismantling the shame of poverty and abuse
• why stopping the 'run' is the essential first step to finding your voice

To understand the woman standing on the stage, we must first look at the girl running from the rats in Central Falls.

Childhood survival mechanisms create psychological cages that persist long after the danger has passed.

Imagine a group of boys, their faces twisted with a strange, predatory joy, waiting for you at the school gates every single day. For a young Viola, this wasn't just a bad dream; it was a scheduled hunt. These boys didn't just want to tease her; they wanted to break her, chasing her through the streets of Central Falls with bricks and screams because she was poor, she was Black, and she was 'ugly' by their cruel standards. She grew legs that could fly, a 'runner' identity born out of the literal need to survive a daily gauntlet of violence.

This kind of childhood terror does something peculiar to your brain. When you are constantly sprinting away from a threat, your nervous system forgets how to come to a rest. You might find that even decades later, when the danger is long gone and you’re sitting in a beautiful home, you are still mentally 'running.' You're waiting for the next brick to be thrown, or you're working yourself to exhaustion because you’re terrified that slowing down means getting caught by the ghosts of your past.

But the cages we inhabit aren't just made of fear; they are often built from the shame of our physical surroundings. Let's talk about the reality of living at 128 Hunt Street. This wasn't just 'modest' living; it was a crumbling, rat-infested building where the cold bit through the walls. How do you develop a sense of self-worth when you have to go to bed with rags tied around your neck to keep the rats from biting your face while you sleep?

Here’s where it gets heartbreaking. When you are a child, you don't blame the systemic poverty or the landlords; you blame yourself. You believe that if your house smells like urine and the floorboards are rotting, it must mean that you are rot. That 'one-two punch' of being neglected at home and invisible at school creates a deep, psychological basement that is incredibly hard to climb out of. You start to believe your existence is an offense to the world.

Take the story of the classroom accident. After a terrifying incident where Viola couldn't make it to the bathroom, she returned to school the next day only to find her desk had been shoved into a corner. The puddle of urine was still there, dried and crusty, completely ignored by the adults who were supposed to care for her. When you are treated as less than human by the systems meant to protect you, it normalizes chaos as your baseline. You stop expecting dignity because you’ve never been shown any.

So why does this matter to you now? Because we all have our own versions of 'the run.' Maybe your survival mechanism was becoming a people-pleaser to avoid a parent's temper, or perhaps you became a perfectionist to mask a home life that felt out of control. These habits served you once—they kept you safe when you were small and powerless. But now, as an adult, those same mechanisms can keep you locked in a cycle of anxiety and self-loathing.

We often think we can outachieve this shame. We think that if we just get the right job or the right partner, the 'runner' inside us will finally stop. But the truth is, the runner doesn't care about your resume. The runner only cares about the next threat. To truly heal, we have to look back at that child in the rat-infested room and realize she wasn't disgusting; she was a warrior. We have to acknowledge that the chaos of our origin doesn't define the value of our soul.

Real power comes from stopping the flight. It involves standing your ground and looking at those old cages for what they are: temporary shelters that you’ve outgrown. But within that chaos, a small spark of creativity began to flicker as a primary means of escape.

Artistic expression serves as a sacred tool for transforming private pain into universal truth.

You’re huddled in the dark with your sister, knees pressed against your chest in a cramped closet. Outside the hollow wooden door, the air is thick with the sound of breaking glass and the terrifying low rumble of a father’s rage. In this moment, you possess nothing but your own breath and a desperate need for the world to be different than it is.

So, what do you do? You don’t just sit there and tremble; you start to perform. In that rat-infested closet, Viola and her sister turned the space into a makeshift stage, whispering comedy skits modeled after 'Sanford and Son' or 'Let’s Make a Deal.'

Here’s the thing: creativity wasn't a hobby for them. It was a form of alchemy. By inhabiting these characters, they weren't just two frightened girls hiding from a violent household—they were creators of their own reality.

We often think of art as something for the elite or the naturally gifted, but let's look at it as a survival tool instead. When your real life is too painful to inhabit, imagination provides a sacred container where you can process that pain without it destroying you.

For Viola, acting eventually became the one place where 'ugliness' was finally allowed to exist. In her daily life, she was shamed for her dark skin and her poverty, but on a stage, every raw emotion and every scar became an asset.

Have you ever felt like you had to hide your true feelings to stay safe or professional? Acting offered the opposite—a invitation to be seen in your most vulnerable state. It was a space where she could scream without being punished and cry without being mocked.

But there’s a catch: you have to believe you’re worthy of the light. A major shift happened when the sisters decided to enter a city-wide park contest with a budget of exactly $2.50. They were competing against polished white dance troupes, but they had something those other kids didn't: the grit of survival.

When they won, it wasn't just about the small gift certificates they received. It was about the look on their parents' faces. For a fleeting moment, the violence at home was replaced by a sense of familial pride that felt like an asylum from the storm.

So why does this matter to you? Because we all have 'closets' we are hiding in, and we all have a story that needs to be told. You don't have to be an Oscar winner to use creative expression to heal your soul.

Whether it’s through writing, painting, or even just how you tell a story to a friend, you are transforming your private struggles into a universal truth. You’re taking the lead in your own life instead of just playing a background character in someone else's drama.

When we stop suppressing our emotions and start expressing them, we reclaim our agency. We move from being victims of our circumstances to being the architects of our own meaning.

Even as talent paved the way to Juilliard, the ghost of the underprivileged girl still haunted the halls of prestige. The challenge wasn't just getting into the room; it was believing she belonged there.

Authentic success is impossible until you stop apologizing for your physical and cultural reality.

You might assume that getting accepted into a prestigious institution like Juilliard is the ultimate sign that you’ve finally 'made it.' We tend to believe that once we reach these elite circles, our rough edges will be polished away, leaving us as perfect versions of ourselves. But there’s a catch: often, these institutions aren't looking for the real you; they are looking for a version of you that fits into a pre-existing, Eurocentric mold.

For years, the training was a process of erasure. You’re told to neutralize your accent, to move your body in ways that feel foreign, and to master 'classical' texts that were never written with your lived experience in mind. It creates a suffocating disconnect where you feel like you have to apologize for your very physical and cultural reality just to be considered talented.

So why does this matter to your own journey? Because we all face moments where we feel we must put on a mask to fit into a professional or social hierarchy. We think that by hiding our history and blending in, we are protected. In reality, that mask is a heavy weight that prevents the world from seeing your unique light.

Let’s look at the breaking point of this performance. After years of trying to fit the 'classical' actor mold, the realization hit that her Blackness and her history weren't liabilities—they were the source of her power. True artistry isn't about being a blank slate; it’s about bringing every scar and every memory of Central Falls onto the stage with you.

This shift from apology to ownership reached its climax on a global stage. While playing Annalise Keating, a high-powered defense attorney, a decision was made to do something radical for network television. In a quiet, devastating scene, the character sits before a mirror and begins to transform.

You watch as she slowly removes the heavy eyelashes and the glamorous makeup. Then, in the most vulnerable move possible, she reaches up and takes off her wig, revealing her natural hair and her unvarnished face. It was a literal unmasking that stripped away the 'acceptable' image of a Black woman to reveal the human beneath.

When you see that moment, you realize it wasn't just about a character; it was a defiance of a system that ignores 'invisible' children. It was a statement that you don't need a mask to be worthy of your space. By refusing to hide her physical reality, she forced the audience to look at the truth of her existence.

Here’s the thing: your 'imperfections' and your heritage are actually your greatest assets. When you stop trying to conform to someone else’s standard, you unlock a level of authority that no one can take away from you. We often spend our lives waiting for permission to be ourselves, but that permission only comes from within.

What happens when you finally stop apologizing for who you are? You stop being a performer in your own life and start being the lead character. But there is a final hurdle to clear. You can achieve all the acclaim in the world, stand on every stage, and unmask for every camera, but still feel a void in your chest.

Yet, even with awards and acclaim, the interior work of forgiveness remained the final frontier.

True healing requires giving up the hope for a better past and embracing ancestors as flawed survivors.

Viola sat in a therapist's office, finally surrounded by the trappings of a successful life, yet feeling an unshakable sense of unease. Her therapist looked at her and delivered a metaphor that would change everything: she told Viola that she had spent her entire life walking through 'waste.' You might recognize this feeling—that even when you find yourself in a clean, beautiful room, you’re still stepping high as if you're trying to avoid the filth of your past. You've normalized the chaos so thoroughly that peace actually feels like the intruder.

But here’s the thing about trauma: you can’t heal if you’re still trying to rewrite what already happened. We often waste years wishing our parents had been different or that our childhoods hadn't been filled with such sharp edges. Real healing only begins when you give up all hope for a better past. Let’s look at how letting go of that impossible wish is actually the key to reclaiming your agency in the present.

For Viola, this meant looking at her father not just as the man who terrorized her mother, but as a victim of a system that tried to break him first. When you start to view your 'villains' as flawed survivors of their own generational wreckage, you stop being the victim of their story. You realize they didn't have the tools to love you better because their own hands were too full of their own unhealed wounds.

This reframing allows you to finally retire the 'runner' identity we discussed earlier. You don't have to sprint away from your lineage anymore; instead, you can stand still and observe it with compassion. It’s the difference between being haunted by a ghost and simply acknowledging that the house has some history. When you stop running, you finally give yourself permission to occupy the space you’ve worked so hard to earn.

So how do you actually find stability when your foundation feels like quicksand? You build a 'chosen family.' For Viola, this was her husband, Julius, a man who offered a level of protection she never knew as a child. When he stepped outside with a baseball bat to protect their home, it wasn't just a physical act; it was a psychological anchor. You need people in your life who serve as a 'grizzly bear' for your peace, providing the safety that allows your nervous system to finally power down.

Breaking the cycle of trauma doesn't mean forgetting where you came from. It means choosing which parts of the legacy you want to carry forward. You might have inherited your ancestors' resilience, but you don't have to inherit their silence or their shame. By acknowledging the roots without being defined by them, you transform from a survivor into an architect of your own future.

Think about your own life for a second. Which parts of your past are you still trying to 'fix' in your mind? Let's be honest: that version of the past is never coming. By finally looking backward with compassion for the people who let you down, you're not letting them off the hook—you're letting yourself off the hook.

This act of radical forgiveness is what allows you to step forward into a life of genuine presence. Once you’ve made peace with the ghosts behind you, you’re finally free to look at the woman standing in the mirror today.

The Release of All Hope: Defining Radical Forgiveness

Let’s talk about a word that makes most people uncomfortable: forgiveness. We often think of it as a gift we give to someone who hurt us, a way of saying 'it's okay.' But that’s a lie. Real forgiveness is much more radical—and much more selfish. It’s the total release of any hope that your past could have been better or different. It is the act of relinquishing your demand for retrospective justice. Because as long as you are waiting for the past to change, you are a prisoner of it.

Imagine sitting across from a father who was a 'monster' for much of your life, but who transformed into a man of gentleness in his final years. How do you reconcile those two people? You have to look at the man's history—the trauma he inherited, the systemic walls he hit—to see his humanity without excusing his harm. You realize that choosing peace is more important than being 'right' about your pain. Forgiveness is the act of deciding that your future is worth more than your grudge.

You’ve probably noticed that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. It’s exhausting. When you finally give up the hope for a different childhood, you free up all that energy for your own life. You stop being a 'victim' of your history and start being the 'author' of your present. This doesn't mean the pain vanishes; it just means the pain no longer has the remote control.

This isn't just about family; it's about yourself. You have to forgive the younger version of you for the survival choices she made. You have to forgive yourself for the 'secret, silent shame' you carried for decades. Success pales in comparison to this kind of healing. Once you’ve released the hope for a better past, you can finally stand in the present with both feet. But standing in the present means you have to be seen—all of you. No masks. No wigs. Just you.

Exposing the Real: Removing the Wig

Imagine you’re the lead in a hit TV show. You’re playing Annalise Keating, a powerful, brilliant, 'perfect' lawyer. But you know that every night, when that woman goes home, the first thing she does is take off her armor. She takes off her makeup, and most importantly, she takes off her wig. In Hollywood, this is a terrifying prospect. The 'white gaze' demands a certain kind of polished Black womanhood. But you decide to do it anyway. You decide to expose the private, vulnerable reality of who you are on national television.

This moment represents the ultimate synthesis of power and healing. It’s the decision to stop running from your 'real' self. When you remove the wig, you aren't just revealing hair; you’re revealing the little girl from Central Falls. You’re saying that she is beautiful, she is worthy, and she doesn't need to be hidden behind a mask of success to be valued. This is when the 'imposter' finally dies, and the human being takes over.

You’ve likely experienced a 'wig' in your own life—a persona you put on to feel safe at work, in your relationships, or in your social circles. But there is a specific kind of freedom that comes from being 'unmasked.' It turns your shame into 'warrior fuel.' Those squalid memories and those years of being 'less than' become the very things that make you unshakeable. You realize that you aren't successful despite your past; you are powerful because of it.

Representation matters because it gives others the permission to be real, too. When people see a dark-skinned woman standing in her truth, it changes the cultural atmospheric pressure. It makes it easier for the next 'invisible' girl to breathe. But the most important person who needs to see you is you. Reconciling with your childhood trauma means bringing that little girl along for the ride. You no longer leave her in the burning building; you walk with her. But where are you walking to? That’s the final step of the journey.

The Legacy of 'Finding Me': A Guide to Self-Reclamation

So, here we are. The 'survivor self' and the 'successful self' have finally met. They aren't fighting anymore. This is the goal of finding yourself: integration. It’s not about erasing the trauma or pretending the rats never existed. It’s about walking with your history, not running from it. To find yourself, you must be willing to walk back into the 'apartments' of your past with the light of self-compassion. You have to look at the 'trash' of your life and see it as the soil where your strength grew.

Building a life of radical authenticity requires ongoing work. It’s not a one-time event; it’s a daily practice of emotional intelligence. It’s catching yourself when you start to 'run' again and choosing to stay. It’s about building an 'intentional family'—surrounding yourself with people who provide the protection and stability you didn't have as a child. Most importantly, it's about realizing that you are the 'supernatural ally' you've been waiting for.

If you take away one thing, let it be this: your life has meaning because you are the one living it. Your value isn't tied to the gold statues, the job title, or the amount of money in your bank account. Those are just 'Cinderella moments.' The real magic is in the quiet realization that you no longer need to be 'somebody' else. You already are enough. The girl who ran has finally found a place to rest, and it's right there inside of you.

Think about your own 'apartment.' What are you still running from? What mask are you still wearing? The path to your true self is paved with the stories you’ve been too afraid to tell. But once you tell them, they lose their power to haunt you. They become part of your song. You stop being a ghost in your own life and start being the lead. It’s time to stop running. It’s time to walk. It’s time to find you.