I tie much of what I write
back to trauma.
Why?
Because I believe it’s the foundation—
of almost everything.
When we study human behavior,
trace cultural patterns,
or examine how social constructs are born,
we often find the same thread:
tribes shaped by survival,
rituals built around fear,
and systems forged in pain.
Because we’re human—
and humanity,
every time,
is born into this world
through pain.
Once you begin to sit with that truth,
you start to see differently.
You start to look inward.
More aware.
More reflective.
You stop asking just what you do—
and start asking why.
Why am I like this?
Why do I respond this way?
Most times,
it begins with an interruption.
A break in the rhythm
you didn’t see coming.
And suddenly—
your path shifts.
Your choices change.
Your reactions take shape.
And slowly,
an identity forms
around something
you never consciously agreed to.
We often explain insecurity
as a symptom of low self-worth.
As if it’s just a flaw
in the mirror we hold.
But what if that’s too simple?
Why do you feel unworthy?
What voice told you that?
What moment made you believe it?
What assumption slipped in
quietly enough to pass as truth?
And deeper still—
why did it stick?
Why did it settle so easily inside you?
Maybe it wasn’t one event.
Maybe it wasn’t anything you could name.
Maybe it was subtle,
slow—
like smoke curling under the door
before you realized there was a fire.
Or maybe—
you were born carrying it,
like a coded thread
woven through your story
before you ever had words.
So then we ask—
Who are we?
Who am I?
And what is it, exactly,
that taught me to look at myself
through a cracked lens
before I even understood my reflection?
Maybe insecurity
isn’t evidence of failure—
but a fracture passed down.
A distortion buried so deep
we mistake it for our nature.
Maybe no one made you insecure.
Maybe nothing did.
Maybe—
it was a twisted whisper.
Not shouted.
Not obvious.
Just embedded—
like a myth passed down
through soul-lines.
A suggestion
soft enough to sound like your own voice.
Not to guide you,
but to hold you back.
To keep you small
before you ever saw your size.
So maybe the real question isn’t,
What happened to me?
but—
What is that twisted whisper
trying to keep me from becoming?
J.N. Rose 