I Didn’t Find Myself. I Built Her from Scratch—with Leftover Trauma and a Glue Gun

Pinterest didn’t prepare me for this kind of DIY project.

You know those cute DIY Pinterest boards filled with hand-lettered signs and mason jar fairy lights? Yeah, healing isn’t like that. There’s no pastel backdrop, no satisfying before-and-after transformation shots. What I did? It was more like trying to fix a shattered mirror with a glue gun and a bucket of leftover trauma. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t cute, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy.

The “Before” Nobody Brags About

Let’s start with the mess. Not the kind of mess where you forgot to do laundry for a week. I’m talking emotional Chernobyl. A soul-splitting, spirit-bruising mess that no amount of bubble baths, herbal tea, or Instagram quotes could fix.

I didn’t “lose myself.” That sounds too poetic. I was never handed the blueprint to be anyone in the first place. I was born into chaos, handed a legacy of dysfunction like it was a family heirloom, and told, “Here. Make something beautiful.”

Childhood? Picture trying to build self-worth with IKEA instructions written in a language you don’t speak—except all the tools are broken, and the grown-ups are yelling at each other in the background. You get good at surviving. At reading moods. At shrinking yourself into corners. But thriving? Loving yourself? Setting boundaries? That’s elite-level sorcery they don’t teach in dysfunctional households.

The “Finding Yourself” Lie

They say you find yourself in your twenties, like you're a lost sock under the bed. As if there's a magical epiphany waiting after your third heartbreak or your fifth failed job.

But me? I didn’t find anything.

Instead, I woke up one day—maybe after a panic attack, maybe after deleting yet another text to someone who didn’t deserve a reply—and realized no one was coming to rescue me. No therapist, no lover, no inspirational podcast.

The Build

First came demolition. I had to tear down every version of me built for someone else.

The “I’m fine” girl.

The “let me fix you” girlfriend.

The “I’m chill” friend who never said what she really needed.

The “I’m just happy to be here” employee who swallowed her voice like a vitamin.

Sledgehammer. All of it.

Then came the building. From scratch.

Not with tools. With trauma. With scars. With nights of crying into wine-stained pillows and mornings staring at my bloated, puffy-eyed face in the mirror thinking, Who the hell is she, and why won’t she give up?

I became a carpenter of character. A mason of mental health. A plumber of my own emotional pipes. I rewired the entire house while living in it, screaming and sobbing through the drywall.

Self-worth? Built.

Boundaries? Nailed in place.

Joy? Screwed tightly into the foundation with rusted bolts and blind faith.

And yeah, it was messy. Healing isn’t a spa day. It’s doing shadow work in sweatpants with unbrushed hair while you scream “I DESERVE LOVE” into the void like a deranged raccoon.

So I grabbed the proverbial glue gun.

The Ugly Art of Becoming

Pinterest would never post this project. No one frames a photo of the moment you block your mother for the first time. Or the night you chose silence instead of begging someone to stay. Or the awkward, painful first time you told someone, “That hurt me,” and they didn’t apologize—and you survived anyway.

I didn’t come with instructions. I came with baggage. But I turned that baggage into shelves that held my own damn joy. And I glued that sh*t together with a mix of sarcasm, grit, and therapy receipts.

I built rituals.

I built confidence.

I built a woman who doesn’t just survive chaos—she walks through it with a flame-thrower and a playlist.

And Now?

Now, when people meet me, they see confidence. Strength. Wit. They think I found myself.

I smile politely.

But the truth is: I built myself. Like a weird DIY Frankenstein project fueled by childhood wounds, romantic betrayals, and just enough rage to power a small village.

And I’m proud of that.

Because becoming yourself isn’t an accident. It’s a construction site—messy, loud, painful. But worth it.

So no, I didn’t find myself.

I built her from scratch.

And this time, I made damn sure she wouldn’t fall apart.

Glue gun in one hand. Boundaries in the other. And a sarcastic smile for anyone who dares to ask how I did it.