Who owns the narrative?

I grew up in a single parent household in an economically distressed part of Boston, MA. As a young child and teenager I benefited from many programs and services geared towards a term used liberally  at the time ‘at risk youth.’ I was lucky to have two parents with their native language being English . They both went to college, which was almost unheard of in my neighborhood at the time. That pushed me on the trajectory for achievement in the education system in this country I call home. Many of the programs were low cost to participate or free, which was a plus on my mother’s salary as an administrative assistant in the 80s and 90s. A big part of revenue generation for so many non-profits were around big galas, fundraisers, and storytelling of participants to potential doners.  Very early in life I became very versed in telling a narrative that the funders needed and wanted to hear. I always felt proud of who I was, and everything I accomplished as a kid. My mother taught me the importance of holding my head high, looking adults in the eye, and firmly shaking their hands to command their attention and respect when I was introduced. It always took the adult I spoke to by surprise, and I relished in it. I think when I was starting my senior year in high school, I started to feel like I didn’t own my narrative. My face was plastered on brochures, videos of me speaking were always playing on a loop at different events, and I heard for the first time one of my mentors describe me as an at risk youth in a video. I wouldn’t describe straight A’s, applying to multiple colleges, living in a house, having 2 parents living apart loving me in their own way at risk. I realized there was a package that the fundraising committee needed to box out and ship in order to keep the lights on. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so proud, or like the narrative was mine anymore. I became acutely aware of when I met with donors and they made comments about how well I spoke, and how proud I must feel to accomplish so much in the face of adversity. My mother did work a second job off and on nights to make extra money, and yes I did take a very active role in raising my siblings. The biggest adversity I faced on a day to day basis was fighting my mom about driving my younger brother to school. When I wrote my master’s thesis I pondered the idea of the commodification of youth in non-profit organizations. This selling of the narrative of marginalized voices is not new, and it tends to make a lot of money for the organizations that are savvy enough to monetize it. I only ponder this now as I grapple with another part of my narrative as someone impacted by breast cancer. Do I get to keep my own personal narrative when so many want it to be a message of hope and redemption? Will I be seen as ungrateful if I don’t want to wear pink at events? Can I still be me struggling to just make sense of life as it unfolds? Will I always be just a label that someone sticks on me to figure out my narrative? Boxes never worked for me, because a nebula has no shape. And is it ok if I just don’t know where this story is leading?