Who is Keitha Alwynn?

Who am I? That question is both simple and complex. I’m someone who broke the mold, a person who chose not to walk the well-trodden path or follow the herd. I’ve always danced to my own rhythm, lived to the beat of my own drum. And for that, I am proud. But let me tell you—marching to your own beat is not always a parade of roses and butterflies. It’s a journey full of difficulties, missteps, and struggles.

Did I make mistakes along the way? Oh, absolutely. A whole lot of them. Do I regret some of the choices I made? Yes, I do. But those decisions were part of a larger pattern, a thread woven through my life that I didn’t fully understand for years. It wasn’t until much later in life—into my forties—that I began to confront the trauma I had carried since childhood.

Trauma has a funny way of hiding itself, burying deep until it can no longer be ignored. It doesn’t matter how “different” or “odd” you think you are. Trauma doesn’t discriminate; it resonates the same way in all of us. The details might vary, but the weight feels just as heavy. If you don’t face it, it doesn’t just sit quietly in the corner. It festers. It becomes your worst enemy, whispering lies, leading you astray every chance it gets. That’s the insidious nature of trauma.

For a long time, I ignored it. I pushed it aside, thinking I was above it—or maybe just too scared to confront it. It wasn’t until a boyfriend of mine—someone who had his own scars and insights—held up a mirror that I began to see what I’d been avoiding. I remember it clearly. He said he could always tell when a woman had been through something traumatic, some kind of abuse. I brushed him off, saying, “That’s not me.” But his response stopped me cold: “Oh, you have. That’s for certain.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but that conversation planted a seed. It started unraveling memories and feelings I had tucked away so deep I’d almost convinced myself they weren’t real. In my early fifties, it all hit me like a tidal wave. The full weight of what I had endured—and how it had shaped my life—came rushing to the surface. Only then could I look back and recognize the mistakes I had made, the ways trauma had guided my hand when I thought I was in control.

I’d always believed I was leading with strength, independence, and self-awareness. And in many ways, I was. But beneath that was a current of unresolved pain steering me in directions I didn’t always want to go. If I had known better, maybe I would have done better. But you can’t undo the past. You can only learn from it.

Here’s the thing about trauma—it doesn’t matter if it’s “worse” or “less” than someone else’s. Trauma is trauma. Pain is pain. And while we all carry it differently, the work of facing it is universal. It’s the only way to take the reins back, to stop letting that invisible baggage weigh you down and dictate your future.

Today, I refuse to lead with my trauma. Each morning, I wake up and choose to lead with who I truly am—not the wounds inflicted on me or the baggage others tried to leave me with. I’m not the sum of my past hurts, nor the mistakes I made because of them. I’m the person I was born to be, the person I’ve fought to reclaim.

Yes, there are scars. Yes, there were people who hurt me. But they don’t get to define me anymore. I define myself. And in doing so, I’ve reclaimed my rhythm. It’s not always perfect, but it’s mine—and I’ll keep dancing to it.