For the last few years, I’ve spent a lot of time learning about nervous systems, communication patterns, relationships, boundaries, and the ways our experiences shape how we move through the world.

One of the things I’ve noticed along the way is that the more I learn, the less certain I become about some of the stories I’ve told myself about who I am.

A few weeks ago, Kim (our neurodiversity and trauma-informed expert) and I were driving home after delivering our Building Trust & Psychological Safety training when we found ourselves down one of our favourite rabbit holes.

In that session, we spend some time exploring how a nervous system lens changes the way we understand “difficult” behaviour. The more we talked, the more I found myself wondering:

If so much of our behaviour is influenced by whether or not our nervous system feels safe, what exactly is personality?

We didn’t land on any firm answers, but the conversation stayed with me. In fact, it led me to realize that the more I learn, the less sure I am about some of the stories I’ve told myself about who I am.

The Story I Told Myself

For most of my life, I thought of myself as an extrovert.

I loved a full calendar. Our large friend group meant there was always someone to connect with. I’d have told you that I recharged my battery by being around other people. Being around others felt energizing, so I happily assumed that was part of my personality.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed something has shifted.

As I’ve continued my healing and growth journey, I find myself enjoying my own company more and more. And not just enjoying it, but actively craving it.

Quiet evenings at home feel nourishing. Time alone feels spacious rather than lonely. I still deeply value connection and meaningful relationships, but I no longer feel the same pull to fill every empty space with activity or interaction.

That realization brought me back to the question from that drive home.

How much of what I’ve called personality over the years is actually personality?

And how much might be adaptation?

The River

I recently heard a beautiful metaphor about a river.

When a river encounters rocks, fallen trees, or other debris, it adapts. It finds a path around them. Over time, that new path becomes so established that anyone seeing it for the first time would assume that’s simply the way the river flows.

But if some of those obstacles are removed, the river shifts again.

The river hasn’t become something different. It’s responding to the conditions around it.

The more I sat with this metaphor, the more I found myself wondering how often we do the same thing.

How many of the things we believe to be innate traits were shaped by the environments we grew up in, the relationships we’ve experienced, the workplaces we’ve navigated, and the strategies we’ve developed along the way?

How many of our patterns emerged because they helped us navigate the conditions around us?

The Stories We Carry

In our work, we hear people describe themselves in very definitive ways:

• “I’m just not good at conflict.”
• “I’m a people-pleaser.”
• “I’m terrible at setting boundaries.”
• “I tell it like it is.”
• “I’m just an anxious person.”

These stories often capture something real. They reflect patterns that have been with us for a long time, which is exactly why they can feel so true.

At the same time, I’ve watched too many people surprise themselves to believe these stories always tell the whole story.

We’ve seen people who avoided difficult conversations learn to navigate them with more steadiness and confidence.

We’ve seen people who believed they couldn’t set boundaries start advocating for themselves in ways they never thought possible.

We’ve seen leaders who struggled with feedback learn to approach it with curiosity.

We’ve seen people who had a hard time prioritizing themselves begin making choices that honour their own needs and values.

They gained awareness. They learned to maintain and expand their capacity. They practiced new skills. They created new conditions around themselves.

In many ways, they started shifting some of the debris they had spent years manoeuvring around.

And as those conditions changed, new parts of them became available.

The Same Lens Applies to Others

This idea extends beyond how we understand ourselves.

It also influences how we understand the people around us.

In workplaces, it’s easy to turn behaviours into identities.

The person who avoids speaking up becomes “disengaged.”

The leader who struggles to let go becomes a “micromanager.”

The colleague who reacts strongly to everything becomes “difficult.”

Those labels can stick so firmly that we stop being curious.

When we bring in a nervous system lens, we start to see there was always more to the story. Behaviour begins to look less like a fixed character trait and more like information. Information about capacity. Information about stress. Information about safety. Information about the conditions someone is navigating.

This doesn’t excuse behaviour that causes harm. It does create space for understanding what may be happening beneath the surface.

And understanding often gives us more options than judgment does.

A Question Worth Considering

One of the things I love most about this work is that it keeps inviting us back to curiosity.

Curiosity about ourselves.

Curiosity about other people.

Curiosity about the stories we’ve accepted as fact.

I find myself less interested in placing people into categories and more interested in understanding what motivates them, what supports them, and what helps them thrive.

For myself, I can see now that social connection wasn’t simply something I enjoyed. For a long time, it was also something I depended on.

As I’ve developed a greater sense of safety within myself, that dependence has softened. I still love spending time with people I care about. I also genuinely enjoy my own company in a way I never used to.

The people in my life were never the debris in the river.

What has shifted is my relationship to the need.

That change has made my relationships feel deeper, my choices feel more intentional, and my time alone feel nourishing rather than something to fill.

So I’ll leave you with the same question I’ve been carrying:

What if some of the things you’ve always called personality are actually adaptations?

There’s no need to have a firm answer.

But it might be an interesting question to sit with for a while.

The stories we tell about ourselves can be incredibly powerful. Sometimes they help us make sense of our experiences. Sometimes they quietly limit what we believe is possible. A little curiosity can go a long way in helping us tell the difference.

An invitation

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