I was born into rooms that swallowed light,
where laughter was a stranger,
and silence carried storms too heavy for small hands.
The walls knew my name before I did,
whispering it in echoes of slammed doors,
in footsteps that meant danger, not comfort.
I learned too soon the choreography of survival:
how to shrink into corners,
how to read shadows as omens,
how to carry wounds invisible yet eternal.
My childhood was a map of scars,
each room a country of exile,
each day a rehearsal of pain.
No child should have to memorize
the language of betrayal,
the rituals of abandonment,
the endless litany of fear.
But I did.
And those rehearsals became my inheritance,
my unwanted crown,
my silent companions in every room I entered.
Still—
from the ashes of that child,
a voice rose.
Not a whisper, but iron.
Not confession, but declaration.
A voice that carved poems into the marrow of grief,
that turned trauma into testimony,
and testimony into fire.
I write now not as the broken child,
but as the sovereign witness.
I write to honor the small self who endured,
to name the ghosts that followed me,
to break the cycle with words sharp as truth
and soft as healing.
This blog is my altar,
my offering,
my rebellion against silence.
Here, the child I was
and the adult I became
stand together—
not in shame,
but in power.
Here begins the story:
of survival,
of transformation,
of a voice that will not be buried.
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