Why Was This My Story? | Finding Meaning in the Pain

Why do some of us seem to carry more pain than others? Why do certain chapters of our lives leave us asking, "Why was this my story?"

In this deeply personal episode, I explore the weight of trauma, heartbreak, and unanswered questions. Rather than offering easy answers, I share an honest reflection on what it means to survive the stories we never would have chosen—and how those same stories can shape our compassion, resilience, and purpose.

If you've ever wrestled with grief, loss, abuse, rejection, or simply wondered why life unfolded the way it did, this conversation is for you. You are not alone in asking hard questions, and perhaps healing begins not when we find every answer, but when we realize our story still has chapters left to write.

Thank you for listening and for allowing me to share a piece of my journey with you.

Music Credit

Song: Unraveling
Composer: Scott Buckley
Website: https://youtube.com/user/musicbyscottb
License: Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 (CC BY 3.0) – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Music powered by: BreakingCopyright – https://breakingcopyright.com

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Have you ever found yourself asking the same question over and over again? Why? Why did this happen to me? Why was this my story? Why did someone else get a childhood filled with safety while mine was filled with confusion? I've been sitting with those questions lately. Not because I expect the universe to answer them. But because for the first time, I'm allowing myself to admit that I don't have the answers. And maybe that's okay. We're taught that everything happens for a reason. That one day we'll wake up and every painful experience will suddenly make sense. We'll look back and say, oh, that's why. I'm 47 years old. I'm still waiting. Because if I'm honest, there are days when it feels like all I learned was how to doubt myself, how to apologize for existing, how to believe that everyone else's needs mattered more than my own. I grew up on a farm. It was a beautiful place. There were animals, wide open skies, quiet mornings. It wasn't a lonely childhood because of where I lived. It became lonely because of what happened next. When I was 13 years old, I met my first boyfriend. At 13, you don't know what manipulation looks like. You think attention is love. You think someone choosing you means you're special. You don't realize that some people don't fall in love with your heart. They fall in love with your innocence. Looking back now, I don't think he saw me. I think he saw someone who trusted too easily. Someone who believed people meant what they said. I honestly believed everyone had good intentions. It never crossed my mind that someone could deliberately hurt another person. That simply wasn't how I was wired. He knew exactly what I needed to hear. He made me feel understood. He made me believe he had my best interests at heart. Little by little, the people who truly loved me disappeared. One of the first relationships that suffered was the one I had with my dad. Isn't that often how control begins? Separate. Isn't that often how control begins? Separate someone from the people who protect them. Create distance. Create dependency. By the time I realized what had happened, I felt completely alone. I didn't have a large group of friends. I wasn't the popular girl. Truthfully, I would have been perfectly happy with one or two people I could laugh with. One or two people who knew my secrets and kept them safe. Instead, I learned what it felt like to question everything, including myself. Sometimes I wonder, why me? Was I chosen because I was weak? Or was I simply kind? There's a difference. For years I confused kindness with weakness. Now I know they're not the same thing. Kind people believe the best in others. Unfortunately, there are people who see kindness as an opportunity instead of a gift. That's a painful lesson to learn at 13. The experiences I had during those years shaped so much of my adult life. Not because they defined me, but because they changed my internal compass. Imagine trying to navigate through life after someone has smashed your compass with a hammer. Imagine trying to navigate through life after someone has smashed your compass with a hammer. Every direction feels uncertain. Every decision feels risky. You stop trusting your instincts because someone taught you they couldn't be trusted. I made choices I'm not proud of. Not because I wanted to, but because I honestly didn't know what healthy looked like anymore. When your normal is chaos, peace feels unfamiliar. Even now. There are memories from that time that still make my stomach churn. Things no child should have to experience. Things no child should have to carry into adulthood. But then something changed. I became a mother. My son changed everything. He didn't erase my past, but he made me see it differently. When I look at him, I think about the child I once was. The little girl who simply wanted to spend her days with horses and farm animals. The little girl who wanted one good friend. The little girl who believed the world was mostly good. That's why I try so hard to be present. Not perfect. Present. I want my son to know he can tell me anything. I want him to know that home should feel safe. Because I know what happens when it doesn't. It's amazing how becoming a parent makes you grieve the child you used to be. It also makes you determine to break the cycle. Lately, I've been facing some difficult decisions in my own life. Decisions that honestly terrify me. The possibility of divorce. Starting over, believing I can stand on my own. Those thoughts still wake up the frightened 13-year-old girl inside of me. She whispers, You can't do this. You'll be alone. You'll fail. But here's what I'm beginning to understand. Those aren't my words, they're echoes. Echoes left behind by people who benefited from me believing I wasn't enough. Healing isn't about silencing those echoes forever. It's about recognizing that they don't belong to you. Every day I have a choice. I can continue asking, why was this my story? Or I can ask something different. What do I want the rest of my story to become? Maybe I'll never understand why certain people cross my path. Maybe I'll never know why my innocence became someone else's opportunity. Maybe there isn't an answer. But I do know this. I survived. I became a mother. I learned compassion without being bitter. I still believe kindness matters. That may be the greatest act of resilience there is. Because the world didn't convince me to become like the people who hurt me. It simply reminded me why I never want to. If you're listening today and you've been carrying your own why, I hope you know this. Your past may explain you, but it doesn't have to define you. You are allowed to choose a different ending. You are allowed to trust yourself again. You are allowed to become the safe place you've spent your whole life looking for. Thank you for spending this time with me. If this episode spoke to you, I would love to hear your story. Until next time, be gentle with yourself. Your story isn't over yet.