“One evening, tears welled up in my eyes as I explained how the kids at school were calling me names. She stared at me blankly, sighed, and handed me a jersey. ‘It’s getting cold,’ she said. That was it. She cringed, as if my sadness was an inconvenience, not a call for comfort. The message was clear: sadness had no place here.”
“In an instant, I was eight again. That polka dot dress. That balcony. That ache. My body remembered what my mind had buried. Panic and angry voices collided in my head.”
“Part of my healing meant acceptance: accepting that my childhood was painful and that the emotional starvation I endured left deep scars. I gave up resisting and began to surrender.”
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