I grew up thinking “good” was something you earned by sacrificing what you truly might be.
Keep your voice low, don’t talk back, we know what’s best for you, your dreams will not give you success.
As if I’m just a toy made to survive under their orders instead of living.
I slowly started to forget who I am.
Sometimes the weight of these thoughts pulls me down.
Growing up in such an environment where your obedience is worshipped and your individuality is seen as a curse taught me to fear my own voice.
Sometimes choosing myself is considered a crime. I was considered selfish for just going on a little walk or even talking to a friend.
Small things I choose for myself are treated like crimes, hurting the opinions of people who don’t even care about what I’m feeling.
Whatever I do, whatever I say — everything is considered wrong without even knowing anything about me or my actions.
People act as if they know everything about you just because they’ve seen you grow up in front of their eyes.
But just because they’ve seen me grow up, does that mean they truly know who I am?
Just because they are my parents, does that give them the right to judge my character and call me names I never want to hear as a girl?
I was hurt, I was broken, I was never understood nor loved.

But somewhere in the middle of all this chaos — in the middle of being shaped, silenced, and stabbed by words that weren’t mine — a tiny voice inside me refused to die.

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t confident.
But it existed.

At first, it sounded like a whisper. A fragile reminder that maybe, just maybe, I deserved to be treated like a human being and not a reflection of someone else’s expectations. That I wasn’t born to fit into the mould carved for me long before I could even form my first thought. That I wasn’t created just to be obedient, polite, quiet, predictable, and painfully perfect.

It took me years to understand that goodness is not measured by how small you can make yourself.
It is not earned by swallowing every insult, every manipulation, every guilt trip until you forget what your own truth tastes like.
Goodness is not being a puppet in a play where your strings belong to everyone but you.

I wish someone had told me earlier that loving yourself is not rebellion.
That having dreams is not arrogance.
That wanting freedom is not disrespect.
That choosing peace is not selfishness.
That saying “no” does not make me a bad daughter or a bad girl — it simply makes me human.

Growing up, people taught me how to survive, but no one taught me how to live.
No one taught me how to breathe without fear.
How to exist without apologising.
How to stand without trembling.
How to be myself without feeling guilty.

So I had to teach myself.

I had to learn that my worth does not depend on how many times I break myself to make others comfortable.
I had to learn that my voice matters even if it shakes.
I had to learn that being misunderstood doesn’t mean I am wrong.
I had to learn that my story has value even if they try to rewrite it.

Most importantly, I had to learn that the people who love you will never ask you to shrink.

For a long time, I carried guilt like a second skin. Every step I took for myself felt like betrayal. Every dream I chased felt like I was running away from my responsibility. Every boundary I set felt like a wound I had inflicted on my family.

But today, I understand something I wish the younger version of me had known:

Choosing yourself is not a crime — it is survival.
It is a strength.
It is growth.
It is healing.

When you grow up in a home where your silence is praised, speaking becomes an act of courage.
When you grow up in a place where your choices are questioned, choosing becomes an act of rebellion.
When you grow up in an environment where your existence is controlled, becoming yourself becomes an act of revolution.

And yes, revolution is messy.
It will break you.
It will scare you.
It will isolate you.

But it will also rebuild you.

Slowly, I began stitching myself back together — not into the version they wanted, but into the person I always was beneath the fear and the pain. I started reclaiming my dreams, my thoughts, my emotions, my boundaries, my identity. I allowed myself to breathe, speak, love, exist — not as someone’s daughter, someone’s responsibility, someone’s reflection, but as me.

The girl who once whispered has learned to roar softly — with grace, with honesty, with strength.
The girl who once hid her tears now wipes them herself and keeps walking.
The girl who once feared her own shadow now stands in her own light.

And maybe that’s what healing truly is —
not forgetting the wounds,
but finally understanding that you deserve better than the hands that caused them.

So here is my ending — my truth, my declaration:

I am no longer afraid of being myself.
I will not shrink to fit the comfort of others.
I will not apologise for choosing my peace.
I will not dim my voice to keep the world quiet.
I am growing, I am healing, and I am finally living.

And for the first time in my life…
that feels like freedom.

.    .    .