I Built My Personality in a Burning House. Now What?
By Stella Speridon-Violet
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For a long time, I didn’t realize that my entire personality was a survival strategy, dressed up in charm.
I’ve always been the funny one. The fixer. The high-achiever. The emotionally self-sufficient girl who never needed anyone and was praised for being so “mature for her age.”
I wore these labels on my sleeve like armor. But lately, I’ve started to wonder: who would I be if the house I built myself in hadn’t been on fire the entire time?
Because here’s the thing no one tells you about growing up in chaos, whether it’s emotional neglect, instability, mental illness, addiction, or just that low-grade hum of dysfunction: You adapt. You build yourself out of whatever tools you have.
And if those tools are fear, hypervigilance, and performance, then your entire sense of self becomes a byproduct of survival, not authenticity.
And once the fire goes out, you're left in a quiet room, staring at the walls, wondering if there's even a you under all of these protective layers you’ve put on.
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There’s a term in trauma psychology: “trauma identity.” It’s when you begin to see your worth, your entire self, through the lens of what you’ve survived.
You don’t just have a story, you become it.
And for people like me, who spent years being emotionally agile in volatile environments, the personality that emerged wasn’t built for connection. It was built for defense.
I learned to be adaptable, likable, helpful.
I stayed three steps ahead in every room, knowing what people needed from me before they even asked. I got good at reading microexpressions, gauging tone, and knowing when to disappear. I became funny, because if people are laughing, they aren’t yelling. I became high-achieving, because accomplishment makes you harder to abandon.
And I told myself this was just who I was.
Now that I’m older, and safer, if I’m being honest, I’ve noticed something strange. The chaos I thought I hated? I crave it.
Not consciously. Not in the “I want to be screamed at” kind of way. But emotionally, my nervous system is calibrated for noise. Stillness feels threatening. Love feels suspicious.
And when everything’s going well, when no one’s mad, when nothing’s on fire, I start to spiral.
I look for exits. I pick fights. I crave disruption. Because without something to fix, without some role to play, I don’t know how to be.
It’s like my body still thinks I’m in the burning house, even when the flames have long gone out.
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So now I’m here, in the rubble, trying to figure out how to rebuild. Not a performance. Not a trauma response. But an identity.
And it’s hard. Healing is boring. It’s not a montage. It’s long walks and awkward silences, and journaling things that don’t have answers yet.
It’s resisting the urge to text someone who treats me like an option, just because feeling discarded feels familiar. It’s sitting with the urge to run and asking myself what I’m really afraid of.
The truth is, I’m afraid of peace.
Because peace requires presence. And presence requires vulnerability. You can’t scan the room for danger when you’re looking someone in the eyes.
You can’t earn love when it’s freely given. You can’t be the fixer when nothing is broken.
And maybe that’s the hardest part. Realizing that I’m not broken either. Just unfinished.
So what now?
Now I build slowly. Thoughtfully. I check in with my body instead of overriding it. I notice when I’m shrinking and try to stay still. I practice letting good things be good instead of poking holes in them to prepare for disappointment.
And I remind myself, sometimes daily, that I am allowed to exist outside of crisis.
The burning house gave me sharp instincts, thick skin, and a wildly intuitive heart. But it also gave me anxiety, self-doubt, and a distorted sense of safety. I’m grateful for what got me through. But I don’t need to live in it anymore.
I’m allowed to leave the ruins.
And this time, when I build, it won’t be out of smoke.
