The Ache That Taught Me Silence

“I was a child with a scream sealed into her chest.

My silence wasn’t saintly—it was survival. I learned early that to be loud was to be punished, to be seen was to be targeted. I wore my quiet like armor, but inside I was roaring. They mocked my weight, my face, my solitude. I believed them. Every insult branded me with a quiet conviction: You are unworthy.

What they didn’t know was that their cruelty was feeding something ancient in me. Something watching. Something waiting.

A girl made of pain grows teeth. She learns to bear it beautifully.”