My Journey: How Trauma Made Me See Myself Clearly

By Trinity Barnette

There are moments in life that split you wide open—crack your world into pieces and force you to look in the mirror, even if you’re not ready. For me, that moment came when I was just 14, dialing 911 for the third time, trying to get the Baltimore police to show up after my father hit my stepmom. I didn’t know it yet, but that night would set off a chain of events that would change my life forever.

What followed was pain, loss, and a move that felt like exile. But it was also the beginning of my self-awareness journey—one that would teach me how to look inward, call out the patterns, and finally start healing. This isn’t just a story about trauma. It’s a story about survival, transformation, and becoming the person I was always meant to be.

The Turning Point: February 14th, 2020

Valentine’s Day wasn’t supposed to go like that. That was the day I left everything I knew behind. I packed my things and left Maryland for Florida—just 14 years old, carrying the weight of a decision no kid should have to make.

Somewhere in the days leading up to that, I had to call 911 on my father. Not once, not twice, but three times before the Baltimore police finally showed up. That was the night he hit my stepmom. It wasn’t the first time, and heartbreakingly, I knew it wouldn’t be the last. But that moment changed everything. It made the chaos real, irreversible. And I was the one who forced the consequence.

I sent my dad to jail. The man I loved more than anyone—even with everything he had done. That’s what people don’t get about abuse: love and trauma aren’t mutually exclusive. You can hate what someone did and still ache for their presence. Saying goodbye to him, my stepmom, my grandma Estelle, and the few people who made Maryland feel like home? It broke me.

Moving into my grandma’s house should’ve felt like a relief—it was calm, safe, and stable. But I wasn’t used to that. I was used to yelling, doors slamming, eggshells under my feet. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was deafening. It forced me to sit with everything I’d run from.

Just a month earlier, in January 2020, I was hospitalized after taking 20 Excedrin pills. It wasn’t about dying, not really. It was a cry for help. A call to the world to say: I’m not okay. I need someone to see that.

I had already been unraveling before I left Maryland. And Florida didn’t pause that unraveling—it magnified it. But that unraveling? It eventually turned into reconstruction. Into rebirth. Into me.

The Aftermath: Isolation, Introspection & 8th House Vibes

Moving to Florida dropped me into a new reality—and for the first time, I wasn’t surrounded by chaos. My grandma’s house was beautiful. Peaceful. Quiet. Too quiet. That kind of stillness messes with you when you’ve spent your whole life adapting to noise, walking on eggshells, predicting someone’s next explosion.

At first, the silence felt safe. But then it felt… unbearable. Because when you’ve never been taught to sit with yourself, stillness becomes a threat. Without the distraction of my dad’s outbursts or the constant emotional tension, I was left alone with my thoughts. And that’s where the real war started.

Online school became my sanctuary and my cage. I had time—too much time. Time to think. Time to reflect. Time to become someone new. I had always smoked weed to numb everything, barely doing my schoolwork back in Maryland. But something shifted in Florida. I finished 8th grade early. I started high school early. And for the first time, I was actually doing the work.

And then came the plot twist: psychology class.

It was 9th grade. One semester. One subject. And suddenly, everything clicked. My Mercury is in Scorpio in the 9th house, and if you know astrology, you already know what that means. I became obsessed with learning, researching, understanding. I wasn’t just reading about psychology—I was dissecting myself with it.

I saw myself clearly for the first time.

I was angry. Short-tempered. Explosive. Just like him. My dad.

And I hated it.

But instead of spiraling, I studied it. I traced my behavior like a crime scene. Why did I throw things when I got upset? Why did I feel abandoned every time someone didn’t answer the phone? Why did I mirror everyone I was around, like a chameleon trying to survive?

The deeper I went, the more I started to see the patterns—and for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to escape myself. I wanted to understand her. Fix her. Love her.

Diagnoses That Set Me Free

I always knew something was different about me. I just didn’t have the words for it yet.

I knew I was intense—emotional, impulsive, unpredictable. I could go from laughing to spiraling in seconds. I could be loving and generous one minute, then drowning in emptiness the next. It was exhausting. Not just for other people—for me.

When I started learning about psychology, I stumbled across a term I’d never heard before: Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). And for the first time in my life, I felt seen. Like—deeply seen. The mood swings, the abandonment issues, the black-and-white thinking. It was all there, laid out like a blueprint of my brain.

But when I brought it up to professionals, no one took me seriously. They brushed it off. Told me I was “too young” to be diagnosed with a personality disorder. But I knew. I felt it in my bones. And I wasn’t about to be gaslit out of my own truth.

I fought for that diagnosis.

I fought for myself.

And two years later, I got it: Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).

It was one of the most validating moments of my life—not because I wanted a label, but because I finally had something to work with. I wasn’t “crazy.” I wasn’t broken. I was a product of trauma, abandonment, instability. And now that I had the name, I could begin to heal.

But Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) wasn’t alone.

I would go on to be diagnosed with:

• Bipolar Disorder, which explained the deeper emotional cycles I experienced.

• Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD), which revealed how my perfectionism, rigidity, and constant need for control were also part of my trauma response.

• Attention-Deficit-Hyperactivity (ADHD, which I’d masked for years under high-functioning chaos.

• Depression and anxiety, of course—those were old friends by then.

Each diagnosis helped me see a different layer of myself. Each one gave me a new tool for my survival kit. Each one was a piece of the puzzle that made me stop seeing myself as a problem and start seeing myself as a person—complex, nuanced, and worthy of care.

These weren’t curses. They were context.

Generational Trauma & The Warning Sign of My Aunt

Mental illness runs through my family like blood. It’s inherited. Unspoken. Survived.

I didn’t know the full scope of it when I was younger, but I always felt it lurking—like a shadow passed down. My aunt had bipolar disorder. The kind no one wanted to talk about until it was too late. The kind that made people roll their eyes instead of offering help. I loved her, but I feared becoming her. The chaos. The spirals. The unpredictability. The weight.

I’ll never forget the early morning she called me at 5 a.m sometime in 2020., telling me to wake up my grandma because she needed her. I didn’t know what was happening at the time, but I found out later she was sitting in her driveway with a gun in her hand. She was going to end it.

Three years later, she did.

In 2023, she shot herself. She was declared brain dead, and I watched as my family sat in a hospital room for days until they made the impossible decision to take her off life support.

That was when everything clicked.

She was the warning sign. The red flag. The version of me that could have been if I didn’t choose a different path. If I didn’t fight for self-awareness. If I didn’t stop pretending I was okay and start actually doing the hard work of healing.

I’ve had suicidal thoughts before. I’ve thought about not being here. I’ve imagined that maybe someone would kill me before I got the chance to live the life I want. But I’ve also promised myself something: if I ever go, it won’t be because I gave up.

I won’t let this world take me out. I won’t become another tragedy, another funeral program, another “she had so much potential.”

My aunt’s death didn’t just scare me.

It lit a fire in me.

I knew that I had to live with intention. That I had to understand myself, love myself, fight for myself—even when it felt impossible. Because if I didn’t, I knew exactly how my story would end.

How I Took Control

It’s one thing to survive trauma. It’s another thing to face it, study it, and actively choose not to pass it on.

I knew early on that I didn’t want to be like my dad. I didn’t want people to walk on eggshells around me. I didn’t want to be the reason someone else questioned their worth, tiptoed around their emotions, or hated coming home. I had already lived that reality—I refused to recreate it.

But that didn’t mean I was perfect. I had a temper. I threw things when I was angry. I lashed out, and sometimes I didn’t even know why. That’s what generational trauma does—it doesn’t ask for your permission. It creeps in and calls itself “normal” because it’s all you’ve ever known.

So I had to choose to unlearn it.

Through therapy, reflection, and an ungodly amount of shadow work, I started connecting the dots. I realized that the root of my anger was fear—fear of abandonment, fear of being misunderstood, fear of losing control. And once I knew that, I started responding differently.

I didn’t always get it right. I still don’t. But I started seeing the patterns.

And once you see the pattern, you can’t unsee it. You can either keep repeating it or start rewriting it. I chose to rewrite it.

I became hyperaware of how I treated others—especially the people I loved. I stopped reacting and started reflecting. I let go of people who no longer fit my growth. It hurt, but I knew I couldn’t stay emotionally small to keep others comfortable.

The chameleon version of me—the one who changed herself for approval, who wanted to be liked by everyone—had to die. She served her purpose. She kept me safe when I didn’t know any better. But I know better now. I know myself now. And the real me? She doesn’t shrink.

I started to prioritize boundaries, discipline, and emotional responsibility. I held myself accountable in ways that no one else could—sometimes to a fault. But I’d rather be too self-aware than blindly destructive.

This is what taking control looked like:

Not perfection.

Not pretending I’m healed.

Just choosing, every day, to be better than the version of me that was born from survival.

The Power of Astrology & Numerology

You can believe in it or not—honestly, I don’t care. But astrology and numerology have given me a language for the parts of myself I couldn’t explain. They’ve given me direction, validation, and clarity when nothing else made sense. And I trust my intuition 100%.

Let’s start with numerology.

I’m a Life Path 1—the pioneer. The leader. The builder. I was born to create something from the ground up, and my entire life reflects that energy. I’m not meant to follow the crowd. I’m meant to stand alone when necessary and lead. And I do.

I’m also a Destiny Number 4, often referred to as the “master builder.” That’s where my structure, logic, and determination come in. I can be relentless when I want something. I’m grounded, calculated, and intentional with how I move.

Then there’s my Soul Urge Number 6, which explains my compassion, my sensitivity, and my deep care for others. I’m emotionally aware, protective, and nurturing—even when it hurts. Even when I want to shut it all off.

And finally, I’m a Personality Number 7—mysterious, introverted, analytical. People can feel my aura without me even saying a word. I’m selective with who I let in, and I don’t trust easily, but when I love, I love hard. That depth? It’s rare—and I know it.

Now let’s talk astrology, because my chart eats.

• Mercury in Scorpio in the 9th house: That’s why I thrive in education, writing, and research. My thoughts are deep, penetrating, and transformative. I don’t just learn—I investigate.

• Venus in the 10th house: I attract success naturally. People gravitate toward me, and I’m built for visibility. I’m a trendsetter, a networker, and a magnetic presence in any room I walk into.

• Mars in Taurus in the 4th house: I’m slow to anger, but when I snap? It’s war. That placement explains my temper—but also my dedication to comfort and security. I crave stability, and I will create it for myself.

• Sun in Libra in the 8th house. This is a core placement for me. It’s why I’m drawn to psychology, transformation, intimacy, and uncovering hidden truths. I’m obsessed with the deeper layers of life and people. I live in extremes, and I’m built to survive them.

• Jupiter in the 9th house: Expansion, philosophy, abundance—especially through higher learning and global impact. I’m made for this.

• Capricorn Rising with a 1st House Stellium (Uranus, Neptune, Chiron): Old soul energy. I carry the weight of generations but also the power to break cycles and redefine legacy.

• Aries North Node, 2nd House: This is my soul’s purpose. To be bold, direct, unapologetic. I used to live in my Libra South Node—people-pleasing, passive, shrinking. But not anymore. I’ve stepped into the Aries energy fully. I speak up. I stand tall. I lead.

These placements don’t define me—but they help me understand myself. They’ve helped me forgive parts of me that once confused or scared me. They’ve helped me embrace my contradictions. My fire and my softness. My rage and my grace.

They remind me that everything I am makes sense.

Lessons From Rock Bottom

Rock bottom isn’t just where you lose everything.

It’s where you finally stop pretending.

I’ve hit that place more than once—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I’ve felt so low that existing felt like a punishment. I’ve stared at the ceiling wondering if I’d ever feel okay again. I’ve punished myself for not being “better” or “healed” fast enough. I’ve believed I was too broken to be fixed.

But here’s the truth: rock bottom has always been my turning point.

Every time I fell apart, I learned something. About myself. About the world. About survival. Pain became my professor. Darkness became the classroom. And instead of staying there, I started taking notes.

I realized that:

• I’m stronger than my lowest moment.

• I know how to rebuild—because I’ve done it with nothing but self-awareness and spite.

• I can handle anything life throws at me, because I already have.

• And most importantly: I never needed to be perfect to be powerful.

Yes, I have flaws. Yes, I have mental health struggles. Yes, I’ve been through hell. But I’ve also developed self-discipline, emotional intelligence, boundaries, vision, and grit. I don’t crack under pressure—I become clearer. Sharper. More dangerous—in the best way.

Rock bottom taught me how to put myself back together. Not like I was before, but better. Stronger. More self-aware. More intentional.

I’ve learned that the worst moments don’t define you—how you rise from them does.

And I rise like it’s my birthright.

Words to My Younger Self

To the 14-year-old girl in that hospital bed—

I see you.

I know it feels impossible right now. Like no one hears you, no one understands, and no one would even care if you disappeared. But I do. I’m you. I’m the version of you who survived.

You weren’t being dramatic. You weren’t being “too sensitive.” You were hurting.

You were suffocating in silence, and no one noticed you gasping for air.

You thought the pain was who you were, but it wasn’t. It never was.

I know you’re angry. I know you’re tired of pretending to be okay. I know you feel like the black sheep in a family that doesn’t know how to love gently. I know it hurts to love someone who hurts you back—and to still want their approval anyway. That shame isn’t yours to carry.

You were never broken. You were just wounded.

I want you to know:

You become someone.

Someone smart. Strong. Brave.

You become the voice you always needed.

You build something from nothing.

You turn pain into power.

You start a blog that changes lives.

You lead. You create. You inspire.

You don’t stay in that dark place forever.

I know you feel like no one would ever believe in you. But I do.

I believe in you because I’ve watched you fight your way back.

And I’m so proud of you for staying.

You’re going to be okay, baby girl.

You’re going to be more than okay.

You’re going to be her.

— Me, but stronger.

I Am Simply Her

I spent years apologizing for who I was.

Too emotional. Too intense. Too smart. Too angry. Too sensitive. Too much.

But I’m not sorry anymore.

I’m not shrinking. I’m not silencing myself. I’m not begging for acceptance in rooms I was meant to outgrow.

I’ve spent my life studying myself like a map—tracing trauma, decoding behavior, rewriting cycles that tried to claim me. That level of self-awareness? It’s not easy. It’s exhausting. But it’s also liberating. Because once you know who you are, no one can take that from you.

I’m not a victim of my past. I’m the product of survival. I am layered, self-made, self-taught, and self-aware as hell.

People can say what they want. Call me crazy, intense, difficult—I’ve heard it all.

But let’s be clear: I’m brilliant. I’m powerful. I’m emotionally deep and spiritually grounded. I lead. I love hard. I work harder. And I’ve already outlived statistics that said I wouldn’t make it.

This blog? This life? This journey? It’s just getting started.

And trust me, the pen is in my hand now—and I’m writing this story exactly how I want.

You can keep watching. You can keep doubting.

But whether they root for me or not, one thing remains true:

I am her.

Author’s Note:

I want to take a moment to thank my grandmother Diane for giving me a safe place to land when my world was falling apart. For always taking care of me, even when I didn’t know how to take care of myself. We share a bond like no other—and that’s all I’ll say.