That’s a truth I’ve wrestled with for a long time - a truth that doesn’t sit comfortably in a world that wants to paint our past in neat, redemptive arcs. This isn’t a confession. It isn’t a cry for sympathy. It’s a reclamation. A celebration. An acknowledgment of what it really takes to build something meaningful in a world that rewards resilience but punishes vulnerability.

When I look back, I see the gifts my trauma gave me. They weren’t gifts I asked for - but they shaped me, nonetheless. In the chaos of my childhood and early adulthood, I learned to see what others missed. My insight was born in the places where silence reigned and danger was close enough to touch. I became a master at reading what wasn’t being said, at sensing the undercurrents of a room, at detecting patterns that could mean safety or survival. That’s how I kept myself safe. That’s how I learned to trust my instincts - because I had to.

Empathy, too, was forged in those moments. When you carry shame, you learn how to see the cracks in others. You learn to notice what’s hidden. I spent years believing that if anyone ever saw the truth about me - the things I’d done to survive, the ways I’d compromised myself to keep going - it would be the end of me. But it also taught me how to hold space for others’ shame, how to see their humanity even when they couldn’t see it themselves. It’s why I can sit with a CEO who’s terrified to admit they feel lost, and make them feel seen. It’s why I can watch a leader falter and know that there’s no need for judgment - only for truth.

And tenacity? That was the heartbeat of my life. For decades, failure simply wasn’t an option. I was the one who couldn’t fall apart, because if I did, everything would collapse. I didn’t just work hard - I worked like my life depended on it. Because sometimes, it did. That’s why my standards were higher. Why my output was relentless. Why I always outperformed expectations, even when it cost me everything else. Over-functioning became my default - and for a long time, it worked. Until it didn’t.

Woman embracing a moment of serenity and mindfulness

Because here’s the part we don’t say out loud: those same survival-driven gifts can also become the weight that keeps us stuck. They make us invaluable to others - but invisible to ourselves. They make us resilient - but also brittle. And they can keep us locked in the story of survival long after we’re safe.

I see this in the leaders I work with. The ones who built empires from nothing. The ones who learned to read a market the way I learned to read a room - because they had to. The ones who have insight, empathy, and drive coursing through their veins because life demanded it. They’re powerful. They’re magnetic. But they’re also exhausted. Because when your gifts are tied to your pain, they’re never fully yours.

So what happens when you reclaim them? When you stop using them to prove that you’re worthy, and start using them to build what truly matters to you? That’s the real transformation. That’s the shift that turns survival into sovereignty.

Today, I still have the insight. The empathy. The tenacity. But I don’t use them to keep myself safe anymore. I use them to create. To connect. To lead. I’m no longer driven by the fear that if I stop performing, I’ll disappear. I’m driven by the knowing that these gifts - born in pain - are mine to wield with choice, with boundaries, with purpose.

This is what I’ve learned:

Your story doesn’t have to define you - but it can be the reason you rise.

If you’re still stuck in survival mode - still over-giving, still over-delivering, still proving your worth through the weight you can carry - I see you. And I want you to know: you don’t have to leave your story behind to create something new. You just have to stop letting it drive you.

Because the moment you do? Your gifts become your power. Your edge. Your contribution to the world.

This isn’t about healing for healing’s sake. It’s about reclaiming your gifts. It’s about knowing that your insight, your empathy, your tenacity - they aren’t just relics of your past. They’re the tools that can build your future.

If you’re ready to take the power you forged in your hardest moments and use it to create the leadership, the life, the legacy that calls to you - I’m here.