Leading with Wounds

 

(Photo owned by Alexander Krivitskiy on Pexels)

I’ve noticed something that’s been sitting heavy on my chest lately. Some people introduce themselves with their trauma. Not with who they are now, or what makes them laugh, or what drives them—but with what broke them. They hand you their wounds as if it’s the most essential thing you should know. Like saying, “Before anything else, know this pain. It’s who I am.”

I used to think that was a form of bravery. Vulnerability, maybe. But I see it differently now. There’s a point where sharing your story becomes less about connection and more about performance. And the scariest part? A lot of people don’t realize when they’ve crossed that line.

Pain is real. But when it becomes your only identity, your default mode, your go-to introduction—something’s off. I’ve seen this happen. I’ve loved people who clung so tightly to their suffering that they forgot how to live outside of it. They’d rehearse their stories over and over again, like a script they couldn’t stop performing. At some point, you stop processing and start looping. At some point, you stop healing and start bleeding on everyone who didn’t cut you.

(Photo owned by Ulrich Keutchatang on Pexels)

Here’s what I’ve learned:
Your wounds are part of you, but they are not you.
Leading with your pain every time you enter a new space doesn’t make you authentic. It makes you stuck. And being stuck isn’t strength. It’s stagnation.

There’s also a fine line between being vulnerable and throwing a long-term pity party. Some people don’t want to move forward—they want an audience. They want sympathy. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’ve built their identity on being broken. And let’s be honest—when attention becomes your form of survival, healing might feel like a threat.

But that’s not where I want to stay. That’s not who I want to be.

Yes, I’ve led with my wounds before. I’ve walked into rooms with pain painted across my chest, hoping someone would see it and love me anyway. But I know now: my pain is not proof of my depth. My healing is.

I want to be someone who leads with presence. With clarity. With groundedness. With what I’ve built from the rubble, not just the rubble itself. I want to be remembered for how I’ve grown, not just for what I’ve survived.

(Photo owned by Matthew Barra on Pexels)

Because leading with wounds keeps you in the past. Leading with growth brings you into the now.

We are all vessels—we carry things. Emotions, stories, histories. But if all we do is carry, and never unpack, never clean out the vessel, eventually we break. Or worse, we start to believe we are only useful when we’re full of pain.

You can honor your past without living in it.
You can acknowledge your hurt without forcing it into every conversation, every connection.
You can hold your wounds without handing them to every person you meet.

You are not what hurt you.
You are what you build from it.


Ubud, 5th April 2025
"This Love" - Craig Armstrong