Who we are
This Might Be My Fault is a storytelling and accountability project built for the people who grew up in chaos, learned to function in it, and are finally asking, “How much of this is them and how much of this is me?”
Hosted by Jasmine S. Tiller, the show sits at the intersection of trauma, choice, culture, and consequence. It doesn’t worship “healing aesthetic” or pretty affirmations. It asks harder questions:
What actually happened?
Who did it?
Who enabled it?
And where did I keep choosing what hurt me?
Each season, Jasmine pulls apart real stories,her own and others’, about narcissistic parents, religious and cultural conditioning, sexual assault, abusive relationships, silent family secrets, and the fallout that lands in our money, our parenting, our health, and our sense of self. The point isn’t to blame for sport; it’s to name what’s true and trace how we participated, adapted, and survived.
The show moves like a case file and feels like a late-night kitchen table conversation: part investigative breakdown, part confession booth, part mirror. Listeners are invited to witness, reflect, and then turn the questions inward:
If this might be their fault,what might be mine?
And what do I want to do with that information now?
This Might Be My Fault is for people who are done protecting reputations and ready to protect their own peace, their children, and their future. No performance. No fake forgiveness. Just truth, context, and the courage to do better with what we now know.
About Jasmine – Host & Creator
I’m Jasmine S. Tiller.
Mother. Daughter. Friend. Community advocate. Storyteller.
I was born in Brooklyn and came of age between Brooklyn and the Bronx, in a family where trauma was the language long before anyone had words like “narcissism,” “attachment style,” or “generational patterns.” Around the same time, I was being raised by a narcissistic, physically and emotionally abusive mother and a father who was mostly absent and unequipped when he did show up. My grandparents carried their own unspoken wounds. Secrets were protected. Children were not.
It taught me some ugly lessons: that I was disposable, that my body was negotiable, that love meant enduring harm and calling it loyalty. Those lessons followed me into adulthood, into friendships, into my marriage, into the way I chose partners and tolerated behavior that broke me down.
By thirty-nine, I decided the cycles had to end with me.
By forty-two, I finally severed the emotional and psychological grip of my ex-wife and started telling the full truth about my patterns, not just everyone else’s. That was the plot twist: realizing my empathy was both my gift and my wound. My need to understand why people hurt the way they do often led me to excuse, rationalize, and stay far past the expiration date—losing money, time, health, and pieces of myself in the process.
Setting boundaries, and actually enforcing them, became my sharpest tool. I grieved the collateral damage: relationships that had to end, the image of “family” I was trying to hold together, the years I spent managing everyone else’s comfort while my own life burned in the background. But on the other side of that grief, I found something I had never really experienced before: peace that didn’t require performance.
Professionally, I move in a lot of spaces: real estate, community advocacy, consulting, creative projects. At the core, it’s all the same work, I help people build safer lives. Sometimes that looks like helping someone buy a home. Sometimes it looks like helping them admit the home they grew up in was never safe. Sometimes it’s walking them through the story they’ve never said out loud.
This Might Be My Fault is the container where all of that lands.
It’s where I bring my full self: the girl from Brooklyn, the mother fighting to break cycles, the woman who finally left, the advocate who refuses to lie about what it cost, and the host who believes accountability is not punishment, it’s power.
If you’re looking for a polished persona, that’s not me.
If you’re looking for someone who can name the harm and name their own part in it, then that’s exactly who I am.
I created this project for people who are ready to stop pretending.
To say:
This is what happened.
This is who I became because of it.
This is what I’m choosing now, on purpose.
I’ve always had an eye for the patterns—the contradictions people hope you won’t notice, the truths families bury, the stories we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. When my marriage finally snapped under manipulation, financial control, and the quiet kind of abuse that eats your confidence from the inside out, I did what I’ve always done: I investigated.
I treated my life like a case file.
Not because I was obsessed with the past, but because the present made no sense without it.
This Might Be My Fault became the evidence board.
Every interview, every voice note, every late-night realization became another pin, another line connecting the choices, the wounds, the survival patterns, the silence, the lies—mine and theirs.
This is not gossip.
This is reclamation.
The show asks a simple but uncomfortable question:
How do good people get stuck in bad cycles, and what does it take to finally walk out?
I don’t pretend to be above the mess. I name my part in it.
And in that naming, the truth becomes something radical, liberation with receipts.
If you want pretty, polished healing, I’m not your narrator.
But if you want honesty that stings a little and saves a lot, pull up a chair.
Contact us
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