by 
At home, we rarely had visitors. Our house was the furthest from the main road, and it felt like I was always enclosed there — in a way that I wasn’t sure if I was protected or isolated. I didn’t realize it back then, but looking back now, I can see how that small, safe space shaped the person I became. I grew up surrounded by quietness, where the only sounds I often heard were the rustling of leaves or the occasional laughter from my siblings echoing through the house. I felt safe, but I also felt a distance from the world beyond my little cocoon.
When I started school, that feeling of being enclosed followed me. I wasn’t the type to make friends easily. I observed more than I spoke, preferring to listen and stay in the background. I watched others bond effortlessly over shared interests and jokes, while I struggled to find common ground. I was always kind, always polite, but I wasn’t bold enough to let people in. I created this invisible barrier around me, thinking it would protect me from hurt. But that same barrier kept me from experiencing the richness of connection that others seemed to embrace so naturally.
As I grew older, life didn’t exactly wait for me to catch up. The world kept moving, changing, and throwing new challenges my way. I had to adapt, but somewhere along the line, I lost that sense of calm I once found in solitude. My mind, once a quiet refuge, started to fill with noise — worries, fears, and expectations I couldn’t quite silence. I started to overthink everything — what people thought of me, whether I was doing enough, and if I was making the right choices. Every decision felt like a tightrope walk, where one wrong step would lead to a fall I wouldn’t recover from.
Then came the panic attacks — unexpected, overwhelming, and terrifying. At first, I didn’t even understand what was happening. My heart would pound so loudly that I could feel it in my ears. My breathing would become shallow, and my hands would shake as if they were no longer mine. It felt like my body was rebelling against me, as though all the emotions I had bottled up for years were finally demanding to be acknowledged. The triggers weren’t always obvious — sometimes, it was a crowded room, other times, just a passing thought. I felt powerless, caught in a storm I didn’t know how to navigate.
But even amid this chaos, I found something I didn’t expect — my voice. Writing became my lifeline. The words that I struggled to speak aloud flowed freely onto paper. I poured out my fears, my frustrations, and my confusion onto blank pages, and in doing so, I began to understand myself better. I realized that writing wasn’t just an escape; it was a mirror that showed me who I was beneath all the layers of worry and doubt. It reminded me that I was more than my fears, more than my anxieties. I was someone who felt deeply, someone who cared, and someone who was trying — trying to make sense of a world that often felt too big and too fast for me.
I also started to notice small things that brought me comfort — a warm cup of tea on a quiet afternoon, the familiar scent of home after a long day, or the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves in my backyard. These little moments, though fleeting, anchored me when I felt like I was drifting too far from myself. They reminded me that even when life felt heavy, there was still beauty to be found in the simplest things.
Now, as I stand at this crossroads, I’m still scared. I’m scared that life will change me into someone I don’t recognize, someone I might not like. But I’m learning that change doesn’t have to mean losing myself. Maybe it’s about growing, about shedding the parts of me that no longer serve me while holding onto the core of who I am. I’m learning that it’s okay to be scared, to feel lost, and to not have all the answers. What matters is that I keep moving forward, even if it’s one small step at a time.
So, to anyone who feels like they’re fighting battles no one can see — I see you. And I hope you find your own way of making sense of it all, just like I’m trying to do. Whether it’s through writing, talking to someone who understands, or simply taking a moment to breathe, know that you’re not alone. Life may change us, but we still get to decide who we become in the end.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the real strength lies — in choosing to keep going, even when the path feels uncertain.
