You’ve probably heard the phrase: “Am I the drama?” It’s become a funny sort of cultural shorthand for those moments when we catch ourselves wondering if we might actually be the one adding tension to a situation. I’ll admit, I’ve used it at home more than once. I sometimes joke with my kids that I need a sign at the front door that says, “Leave your shoes and your drama here.”

But underneath the humour, there’s something really interesting about that question. When people ask themselves if they’re the drama, there’s usually a mix of awareness and self-doubt sitting side by side. Sometimes it’s said in jest; other times, it’s a quiet realisation that a pattern seems to follow us around. The tricky part is knowing whether we’re being honestly reflective or just hard on ourselves.

I’ve come to think that “drama” isn’t so much a personality trait as it is a pattern — one that’s often inherited or learned. It’s not chosen, it’s modelled. When you grow up in environments where chaos or tension is the norm, being without it can feel strangely empty. Calm can actually feel unsafe at first. So without meaning to, we might recreate what’s familiar. A raised voice here, a small misunderstanding that spirals there,  all ways to fill the quiet when it feels too still.

In therapy, people often struggle with this idea because taking responsibility can feel like taking blame. They’ll say things like, “I don’t want to be the problem,” or, “I’m not starting it, I’m just reacting.” And they’re right,  they are reacting, but usually to something deeper than the moment itself. I often remind people that our nervous systems have memories of their own. When you’ve spent years navigating unpredictable moods or walking on eggshells, your body learns to expect intensity. It becomes wired for it. And when it doesn’t come, it almost goes looking for it.

That’s not drama — that’s conditioning.

Recognising that difference changes everything.

There’s such power in understanding that the patterns we play out aren’t character flaws. They’re survival strategies that once worked. If you learned to raise your voice to be heard in a loud family, or to shut down quickly to stay safe in conflict, those responses made sense. It’s just that they might not serve you now.

I see this come up a lot in relationships. One partner will say, “They always overreact,” and the other will insist, “I’m not overreacting, I’m just trying to be heard.” And in their own ways, they’re both right. What’s happening underneath is a dance, a push and pull between two nervous systems that are both trying to stay safe, but using opposite moves to get there. The louder one shouts, the more the quieter one withdraws, and the gap between them widens.

In these moments, I sometimes say, “Let’s stop asking who started it and start asking what’s happening between you.” Drama lives in the between,  in the unspoken misunderstandings, the repeated rhythms, the automatic responses that nobody consciously chooses. It’s rarely about the argument itself. It’s about how two people learned, long before they met, to manage discomfort.

The beautiful thing is that awareness changes the rhythm. Once you start to notice when things feel heightened, you can start to pause. You can begin to ask, “Is this moment really dangerous, or does it just feel familiar?” You can start to find safety in calm, even if that calm once felt unnerving.

And sometimes, yes,  we are a bit of the drama. We’re human. We carry our own stories and sensitivities. But that’s not a failing; it’s a signal. It’s information about what still needs gentleness.

The key is to notice your patterns with kindness. Instead of thinking, “I’m the problem,” try, “Ah, there’s that old rhythm again.” It’s the same difference as hearing a song on the radio and recognising it instead of being swept away by it. When you can notice it, you can choose differently.

So maybe the real question isn’t, “Am I the drama?” but, “What does drama mean to me?” Does it mean movement, connection, attention, danger, energy? What’s the emotion underneath it? Because once you name that, the hold it has on you starts to loosen.

For me, drama can still make me smile. It’s part of what makes life colourful and unpredictable. But when it starts to replace peace, that’s when I try to leave it, right there by the front door with the shoes.

If you find yourself asking this question lately, maybe pause before you judge it. Ask yourself where you first learned what “drama” felt like, and what it might be protecting you from. Most of us aren’t addicted to chaos; we’re attached to what’s familiar.

And that means the work isn’t to erase the drama, it’s to make calm feel like home again.