Three years ago, I stepped into the classroom for the first time after the lockdown, excitement buzzing through me. I couldn’t wait to make new friends and share my thoughts. But in a heartbeat, all that excitement shattered, just like a glass fell on the ground and once it broke, it can never be fixed again.

I felt every gaze land on me—my classmates, kids my age, who I’d once hoped would be my friends. As I moved further into the room, I caught sight of a girl whispering to her friend. Their laughter soon spread through the group like wildfire. A chill ran down my spine, freezing my excitement in its tracks.

I didn’t need anyone to say it out loud. I could feel what they were thinking, and I myself began pointing out the possible flaws in me before anyone else. Was it my face, covered in stubborn acne that no cream seemed to fix? Or maybe it was my hair, greased with too much oil and pulled back into a braid so tight it hurt. Perhaps it was the thick glasses that framed my eyes, the weight of their –5 prescription making them feel even heavier on my face.

In that single, torturous moment, every flaw I’d tried to ignore screamed at me, louder than the laughter echoing through the room. My excitement was gone, replaced by a crushing sense of self-consciousness that made the classroom feel unbearably small. All I wanted was to disappear.

I was a 12-year-old girl then, having spent my entire puberty in lockdown. The changes that came with growing up felt distant and almost unreal—something I could ignore as long as I stayed within the safety of my home. But now, in that classroom, there was no escaping it.

I quietly made my way to the nearest seat by the window, trying to disappear into the background. At least the birds and leaves outside didn’t judge me like these monsters in school uniforms did. I held to that small comfort as the minutes dragged by.

When the bell rang for lunch, the room burst with excitement. Everyone eagerly pulled out their lunch boxes, chatting and laughing. Everyone but me. I reluctantly reached into my bag, pulling out my lunch box and resting it on my lap. My mask was still on, and as my hands moved to take it off, they suddenly froze in mid-air.

It felt like all eyes were on me, just waiting to catch a glimpse of my acne-covered face so they could make fun of it. The anxiety struck at me like a lightning bolt, making my heart pound in my chest. Without wasting one more second, I shoved the lunch box back into my bag and hurried out of the classroom. I needed to get away—away from the stares, the whispers, and the feeling that I was being watched.

So, I walked. I walked as fast as I could, hoping that with every step, the weight of their judgment would somehow lighten.

And that’s when it all began.

That moment marked the start of everything—the endless self-doubt, the fear of judgment, and the overwhelming anxiety that followed me everywhere. Every laugh, every whisper seemed to be about me. I became self-conscious of every flaw, real or imagined, and it felt like the world was constantly watching, waiting for me to make a blunder.

It wasn’t just a bad day at school anymore—it became a pattern. Like a loop, I go to school and tries to avoid any kind of social interaction then cry about it at home. The way I saw myself, the way I interacted with others, it all shifted. I started to withdraw, avoiding anything that could put me in the spotlight. It felt safer to blend into the background, to remain unnoticed.

And so, the carefree excitement I once had was replaced with caution, each step taken carefully, as if the ground beneath me might slip at any moment. And then, in that cautious silence, it all truly started.

My grades began to slip, my happiness faded away. The light that once filled my eyes—the passion, the excitement for life—slowly disappeared. It felt like everything that made me who I was had left me behind. And I blamed myself for it all.

Every day became a battle, not just to get through school, but to survive the weight of my own thoughts. What used to be simple joys now felt like distant memories, and even the smallest tasks seemed overwhelming like asking someone for a pen. The struggle wasn’t just external anymore—it was internal, and it killed me.

One day, I was asked to read in front of the entire class. By then, it had become a habit of mine to wear a mask, both literally and metaphorically. As I stood there, my hands shook, and my voice trembled as I began to read.

But just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, someone from the so-called popular group in the class shouted that they couldn’t hear me. His words cut through the air, sharp and mocking, enhancing my fear and insecurity it was like sprinkling salt over my fresh wounds, and all I wanted in that moment was to disappear, to sink into the floor and never be seen again.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes in the room on me. My heart pounded in my chest as I slowly pulled my mask down just a little, trying to raise my voice a little so they could hear me.

As soon as I did, I felt the change in the room. Everyone turned to look at me, their gazes fixed on my face. It was as if time slowed down, and all I could see were their eyes, staring. I could feel their judgment, their curiosity, and it was suffocating. My voice trembled even more, the words blurring together as I tried to push through, but the weight of their stares made it almost impossible to breathe.

After that, the silence in the room became unbearable. Every second felt like an eternity. My voice faltered, barely audible as I forced myself to keep reading, but inside, I was crumbling. My mind raced, imagining all the things they must be thinking—every flaw on my face magnified under their investigation.

I wanted to run, to escape the intensity of their stares, but I was frozen in place, trapped in that moment. The words on the page blurred as I tried to focus, but all I could feel was the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. When I finally finished, it was a relief, but the damage had been done.

As I hurried back to my seat, I could still feel their eyes on me, lingering, and it took everything in me to hold back the tears. That day marked yet another crack in the fragile confidence I had left, a reminder that no matter how hard I tried to hide, I couldn’t escape their judgment.

When the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, I gathered my things as quickly as possible. I avoided eye contact, keeping my head down as I hurried out of the classroom. The hallway felt too loud, too crowded, and I desperately wanted to get away, to find somewhere quiet where I could breathe.

As soon as I stepped outside, the fresh air hit me, but it didn’t bring the relief I had hoped for. Instead, I felt the weight of everything pressing down on me. The world seemed too big, too overwhelming. All I wanted was to retreat to the safety of my room, where I could finally let go of the tears I’d been holding back.

And so, I walked home, alone with my thoughts, trying to make sense of how something as simple as reading aloud had turned into a nightmare. That day changed something in me, deepened the cracks that had already started to form. It became another memory that would haunt me, a reminder of how easily everything could fall apart.

Another incident that stands out was class photo day. It should have been a simple event, a chance to capture a moment in time, but for me, it was a source of anxiety and dread.

As the day approached, my discomfort grew. The thought of having my picture taken, especially with my acne, oily hair, and thick glasses, filled me with dread. To make matters worse, I had to remove my mask for the photo—something that made me feel even more exposed.

When the day finally arrived, the classroom buzzed with excitement and nerves. The photographer set up in a corner, and one by one, students were called to take their place for the photo. I watched as my classmates smiled confidently, their poses relaxed and natural.

When it was finally my turn, I took a deep breath and walked to the front of the room. As I stood there, trying to smile despite the anxiety, I felt every eye on me. The photographer adjusted the lighting and positioned me for the shot, and I reluctantly pulled down my mask.

The flash of the camera was a brief, blinding moment. I wanted to shrink away, to disappear from view into the thin air. My insecurities surged as I imagined everyone scrutinizing my exposed face, and I could almost hear their collective whispers. After the photo was taken, I quickly retreated back to my seat, my face flushed with embarrassment.

The rest of the day was a blur of self-consciousness. I dreaded seeing the final photo, knowing it would become a permanent reminder of how vulnerable I felt. It wasn’t just about the picture—it was about the feeling of being judged and scrutinized, a symbol of the ongoing struggle with my insecurities and the challenge of finding confidence in a world that often felt too harsh.

One day, Another moment that intensified my anxiety happened during class one day. The teacher asked me a question, and as I was about to respond, she said, “Either pull down your mask and answer, or don’t answer at all.”

My heart dropped at her demand. The mask, which had become my shield against judgment, was something I wasn’t ready to remove. The thought of exposing my face, with all its flaws, felt unbearable. I hesitated, feeling the eyes of my classmates burning into me.

The pressure was overwhelming. I tried to muster the courage to pull down my mask, but the anxiety was too strong. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I chose to remain silent, unable to answer the question. The silence in the room grew heavy, and I could feel the impatience of my classmates.

I kept my eyes fixed on the desk; my face flushed with embarrassment. The teacher’s frustration was palpable, and I could sense the judgment from my peers. The incident made me feel even more exposed and self-conscious, reinforcing my fear that my appearance was a constant source of scrutiny. The experience left me feeling isolated and deeply anxious, unsure how to navigate a world where I felt so vulnerable.

Now, three years later, it felt like I am still stuck on repeat. The incidents that once left me feeling anxious and exposed seemed to echo in my life over and over again. Every time I thought I’d moved past one event, another would arise, bringing back the same feelings of dread and insecurity.

The familiar cycle began with moments that triggered my self-consciousness—whether it was a teacher’s request to remove my mask, a class photo day, or just the everyday anxiety of being in the spotlight. Each experience seemed to amplify my fears and insecurities, making me feel like I was trapped in a never-ending loop of embarrassment and self-doubt.

Despite my efforts to move forward and build confidence, it felt as though every step forward was met with a step back. The same fears resurfaced, replaying in my mind like a broken record. I would try to blend into the background, hoping to avoid attention, but it seemed that no matter how much I tried to hide, I was always drawn back into the same uncomfortable situations.

Each incident carried the weight of the ones before it, compounding my anxiety and deepening my self-consciousness. The once-hopeful attempts to overcome my fears felt like they were constantly undermined by the recurring challenges that brought all those old feelings flooding back.

It was as if I was reliving the same struggles over and over, unable to escape the cycle of feeling exposed and judged. Every day seemed like a battle to maintain a fragile sense of normalcy while confronting the familiar waves of self-doubt and embarrassment that continued to follow me.

.    .    .