Real & Raw: Week 2 - Why I Don't Owe You My Story

Raw & Real: Week 2 of the 10-Week Series

There’s this quiet, persistent entitlement that clings to trauma survivors like mold.

An expectation that because we lived through something horrific, we must be willing—eager, even—to hand over the details of our pain like a party trick.

As if the second we speak a sliver of our truth, the rest becomes fair game.

It’s voyeurism dressed up as concern. Curiosity wrapped in performative empathy.

“Tell me what happened.”

“You don’t have to answer, but I’m just so curious.”

“What was the worst part?”

And my personal favorite: “Wow, I would’ve never guessed. You seem so normal.”

There’s a certain kind of hunger people get when they learn you’ve survived something dark.

They lean in, not because they care—but because they want to know.

Like your pain is a documentary they get to stream on demand.

Like your life is a cautionary tale, and they’re here for the twisted plotline.

But here’s the thing: Your curiosity is not more important than my boundaries.

My story is not community property.

It is not your conversation starter.

It is not for your healing, your entertainment, or your awkward silence that you want me to fill.

This expectation—that survivors owe their pain to the world—is just another way people try to control us.

To put our trauma into neat little boxes.

If they can name it, dissect it, understand it, then maybe they can believe it would never happen to them.

And if we refuse to share? If we get quiet?

Then we must be rude. Cold. Unhealed.

Because God forbid we protect what’s ours.

Let me say it plainly: I don’t owe you my story.

Not just because it’s mine—but because sharing it costs me. Every. Single. Time.

Every time I hand over another chapter, I reopen a door I’ve spent years trying to close.

Every time I offer up the timeline of my trauma, I relive it.

I peel off another layer of skin so someone else can feel closer to the fire without getting burned.

And for what?

Validation?

Pity?

A head tilt and a murmured “That must’ve been so hard”?

No thank you.

Sometimes I choose to speak.

And when I do, it’s on my terms.

With my voice.

In my timing.

Not because someone asked nicely.

Not because I owe the world an explanation for why I am the way I am.

But because I want to.

Because I’ve decided it’s worth it.

Because I feel safe—or strong—or just reckless enough to bleed in public again.

But when I don’t?

That silence is not your invitation to push.

It’s not your green light to guess, speculate, or pressure me into performing.

It’s my boundary.

It’s my dignity.

It’s what keeps me whole.

And here’s what people never talk about:

There is power in silence.

There is strength in keeping your story locked behind your ribs where only you can feel it pulse.

There’s wisdom in knowing that not every truth has to be told to be real.

That not every wound needs an audience.

So no—I don’t owe you the backstory.

I don’t owe you the why.

I don’t owe you my process, my healing timeline, or the highlight reel of how I made it through.

If you get to hear my story, consider it sacred ground.

If you don’t, respect the damn gate.

Closing Note:

If you're someone who genuinely wants to understand, here’s the link to my story as written in a previous blog post.

I chose to share it not because I owe it to anyone, but because speaking it aloud is part of my healing. It helps me make sense of the wreckage I’ve walked through. It helps me reclaim my voice after years of being silenced. But make no mistake—reading it is a privilege. It should be treated with reverence, not curiosity. That story came with blood, tears, and loss. So if you choose to read it, hold it gently.