How Things Used to Be Different as a Child

"There was a time when our hearts beat to the rhythm of laughter, when even silence felt safe, and the world was soft in ways we didn’t yet know how to name."

 It’s weird, isn’t it?

How when you’re a kid, everything feels… bigger. Not just the trees and the sky, but the feelings. Happiness was loud. So was sadness. Everything was just more alive.

I don’t think I realized it back then, but those small things—like watching cartoons in your school uniform, or running barefoot in the rain, or eating ice cream at the gate before it melted too much—that was life. That was the good stuff.

We didn’t care how we looked. We didn’t care who was watching. We didn’t even know what anxiety meant. We cried when we felt like it. We laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. We forgave people after ten minutes and shared our food with the same ones we fought with an hour ago.

I miss that. I miss me, from back then.

I didn’t overthink. I didn’t feel pressure to be anything. I just was. Messy, loud, curious, silly. And happy—without needing a reason.

Now? Now I feel like everything has to mean something. Every decision. Every word. Every relationship. Even the joy feels like it has an expiry date sometimes. Like we’re all just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

And honestly? I don’t remember the last time I did something without thinking twice. Or laughed without feeling a little tired after. I miss when things weren’t so heavy. When growing up sounded exciting and not… exhausting.

No one told us that growing up wasn’t just getting taller or older. It’s watching people drift away. It’s knowing you’ll never feel exactly like that summer evening when your whole gang was eating mangoes and the sky was pink and everything felt like it would last forever.

It didn’t.
And I think we’re all just quietly grieving that.

But here’s the thing—sometimes, that little version of us still shows up. Like when we hear an old song and suddenly feel like dancing. Or when we eat something that tastes like childhood. Or when we randomly start laughing with someone we feel safe with.

That part of us? It didn’t die.
It’s just buried under everything else we had to become.

So tonight, don’t try to be strong. Don’t try to have it all figured out. Just… breathe.
Think of that kid you used to be. The one who didn’t care if the drawing was perfect. The one who believed that magic existed. The one who thought love was simple and life was long.

And maybe, for a second, let that kid back in.
Because honestly?
You owe them that.

  "Back then, the world felt bigger, slower, and full of wonder—and maybe the biggest difference now is simply how much we knew how to feel."

“To the One Who Carried Me Without Saying a Word”

🌸 “Some bonds are stitched in silence — felt, not spoken, and carried across lifetimes.”🌸

I don’t know when exactly I realized how much of my heart belonged to you — quietly, unspoken, tucked between the years of growing up side by side. Maybe it wasn’t a single moment. Maybe it was a hundred little ones, all stitched together — moments that didn’t feel like much back then, but now sit heavy in my chest, warm and aching.

You were always there. That’s the thing. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in the kind of way that asks to be noticed. But in the kind of way that only someone who loves you deeply can manage — quietly, consistently, completely.

As a kid, I thought you were invincible. You seemed to have the answers to everything. You knew how to talk to adults. You knew how to make friends. You knew how to hide your tears when things went wrong. I followed your lead, even when I didn’t admit it. I mimicked your expressions, your habits. I wanted to grow up fast, just to be like you.

But you didn’t have it easy. And I see that now. You had to grow up before you were ready. You were expected to “set the example,” to be responsible, to be strong — even when you were scared, even when you felt small. You didn’t get to make as many mistakes as I did, because everyone was watching you. You were always held to a higher standard — and yet, you never turned bitter. Never blamed me. Never made me feel like I had it easier, even though I did.

I remember how you’d cover for me. When I forgot to do something. When I cried for no reason. When I messed up. You’d roll your eyes, call me dramatic — but you’d stand by me anyway. I didn’t understand it then, but now I know… that was your love. That was how you said “I’ve got you.”

And even in the teasing — oh, the teasing — there was love. That ridiculous “You’re adopted” joke that made me cry every time. The way you’d hog the TV remote and pretend not to hear me. The way you always made fun of my haircut or my fashion sense. Back then, I thought you just enjoyed annoying me. But now? I see it as something beautiful — our own language, our own rhythm. Because as much as you teased me… you never let anyone else do the same. The moment someone else crossed a line, you stepped in like a shield. Fierce. Protective. Like home.

There’s a kind of safety that comes from having an elder sibling like you. A safety I never had to ask for, but always felt. You were my first secret-keeper. My first partner in crime. My first protector, and — without a doubt — my first best friend.

And now that we’re older, life feels so much louder. Busier. We don’t talk every day.  But you’re still there. Somehow, always there. With a meme at the perfect time. With advice I didn’t even know I needed. With silence that says, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Sometimes I miss us. The younger versions. The late-night talks in shared rooms. The random fights that ended with both of us laughing. The comfort of knowing we’d always find our way back to each other, no matter how hard the day had been. And sometimes, when the world feels heavy and I wish I could go back to a simpler time, it’s your presence I long for the most. Because with you, even the worst days didn’t feel so scary.

I’ve never said this properly. Maybe I didn’t know how. But thank you.

Thank you for growing up first — for figuring out life when it was messy and confusing, just so I could walk through it with a little more light.

Thank you for all the things you did that no one saw — the sacrifices, the compromises, the times you bit your tongue when you wanted to scream, just to keep the peace.

Thank you for being strong when I wasn’t. For being the example even when it was unfair. For being soft when I needed comfort, and tough when I needed truth.

Thank you for being my person. Without needing to be asked.

“You were my first home in this world — and no matter how far we grow, a part of me will always carry your love like a map back to myself.”

The Stranger I’ve Become

 I don’t know when it changed.

Not all at once—
just slowly,
quietly,
without warning.

One day I looked in the mirror
and the person staring back
felt unfamiliar.

The smile didn’t reach my eyes,
my voice sounded softer,
like it was afraid of being heard.
And something in me
felt missing.

I used to be full of light,
quick to laugh,
eager to speak,
alive in every moment.
Now I hesitate.
Now I overthink.
Now I shrink myself
just to keep others comfortable.

I started saying “I’m fine”
so much
that I forgot what not being fine
even felt like.
I stopped showing my sadness
because no one really listened.

People say,
“You’ve changed.”
And I have.
But they never ask why.

They don’t see the nights I spent
crying silently into my pillow.
The way I slowly stopped texting first.
The way I began to feel like a burden
in rooms I used to feel safe in.

I miss the old me.
The girl who felt everything
and didn’t apologize for it.
The one who laughed too loud
and believed in people too much.
But maybe she’s still here.
Maybe just tired.
Maybe just hiding
until it feels okay to be her again.

I’m not lost—
just learning.
Trying to feel whole again
without becoming smaller for anyone else.

And I know I’ll get there.
Because underneath everything,
she’s still me.
And I deserve to come home
to myself.

“The stranger I’ve become is not someone I planned to be—but perhaps she is who I needed to become to survive.”

“The Lessons We Never Knew We Were Learning”

 “Some lessons don’t speak in words — they arrive in silence, in glances, in the way the world quietly shows us how to be.”

We don’t always realize it, but we’re constantly learning.
Not from lectures or books, not from someone standing in front of us saying, “Here’s what you need to know.”
But from the quiet stuff. The things we witness. The moments that don’t ask for attention but leave an impact anyway.

We learn from what we see.
That’s the truth of it.

As kids, we learned everything by watching.

How to smile. How to walk. How to comfort someone or cry or throw a tantrum. We didn’t know what anything meant, we just saw it and picked it up. That’s how it starts—and honestly, that’s how it stays.

Even now, we’re still observing. Still absorbing. Still adjusting who we are based on the world around us.

It’s in the way your friend handles disappointment with a deep breath instead of yelling.
It’s in the way your coworker stands up for herself in a meeting, even though her voice shakes.
It’s in the way your parent apologizes after losing their temper—even when they didn’t have to.

That’s what teaches us. Those are the real lessons.

We don’t always realize how much the people around us influence us.
Not in a copy-paste way, but in the quietest corners of ourselves.

You hang out with someone calm, you start to slow down too.
You watch someone chase what they love, and suddenly your own dreams feel possible again.
You’re around someone who constantly puts others down, and without meaning to, your inner voice starts to sound like theirs.

It’s wild how subtle it is.

And then, there's this strange realization: just like we’re watching others... people are watching us, too.

No pressure, right?

But really—someone is noticing the way you smile at strangers, or how you bounce back from tough days. Someone’s learning from how you love, how you listen, how you keep going.

You never know who’s picking up little pieces of hope from the way you move through your own life.

That’s kind of beautiful.

So yeah. We learn from what we see.

We’re shaped by what we’re around—what we soak in, what we quietly carry. That’s why it matters to choose carefully. Not in some overwhelming, overthinking kind of way. Just... mindfully.

Surround yourself with people who feel like warmth.
Pay attention to the moments that move you.
And maybe, just maybe, try to be one of those moments for someone else.

Even without saying a word, you’re teaching something.
And you’re learning, too.

Always.

“We are all mirrors and windows — quietly reflecting, gently revealing. And in each other, we find the pieces we didn’t know we were missing.”

“The Friend Who Stayed: A Story of Healing, Trust, and Growing Up”

 "Sometimes, the light we’re searching for is simply the warmth of a kind soul beside us."

Growing up is strange. One day you're learning how to ride a bicycle, and the next, you're trying to figure out why someone suddenly stopped talking to you at school.

From a very young age, we’re told by our parents:
“Study well. Choose your friends wisely.”
At that time, it sounds like just another line, something you nod at before running off to play. But the older you get, the more those words hit you.

Because friendship… friendship shapes you. It builds you—or breaks you.

In childhood, things are simple. You share your tiffin with someone, and boom—you’re friends. You talk nonsense, laugh over nothing, and everything feels like an adventure. There’s no judgment. No second thoughts. You don’t worry about betrayal or fakeness.

But slowly, that innocence begins to fade.

You begin to see the layers in people.
The ones who smile to your face and whisper behind your back.
The ones who act sweet but slowly chip away at your self-worth.
And the hardest part? Sometimes you don’t even notice it right away. You just start feeling “not good enough” without knowing why.

Many kids experience bullying in ways that adults can’t always understand. It’s not always physical. Sometimes it’s being left out of group projects. Sometimes it’s the whispered laughs when you walk into a room. Sometimes it’s just feeling invisible—even when you're surrounded by people.

And for those kids? It’s terrifying.
Because at that age, you don’t even have the words to explain what you're going through.

You try to talk, but people brush it off. “Don’t be sensitive.” “It’s just a phase.”
So you stop trying.
You hold everything in and start shrinking yourself. You stop asking questions in class. You avoid eye contact. You sit at the back, hoping no one notices you.
Because the more invisible you are, the less likely someone is to hurt you.

And the saddest part is... no one sees this pain unless they're really looking.
Not even parents sometimes.

They see the mood swings, the silence, the sudden fear of going to school, but they don’t always know why. And the child? They’re too scared or ashamed to explain.

So what do we do? We look for someone—anyone—who might get it.
We pray for a friend.
Someone who won’t laugh when we talk about what hurts.
Someone who won’t use our fears against us.
Someone who stays, even when we push them away.

But when you’ve been hurt before, trusting again feels impossible. You hesitate. You question everyone’s intentions. You convince yourself that no one is genuine. That everyone will eventually leave or change.

And then, one day, out of nowhere—someone shows up.
Someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.
Someone who just… gets it.

They sit with you in your silence. They don’t try to fix you—they just let you be. And slowly, very slowly, you begin to heal.

You start laughing again, even if it's just a little.
You begin talking more, letting the words come out in broken, hesitant pieces.
And they don’t flinch. They stay.

That’s when you realize:
This is what real friendship looks like.
Not loud promises or dramatic declarations.
Just quiet consistency. Unshaken loyalty. And gentle presence.

They don’t demand to know everything. They don’t pressure you to be “okay.”
They’re just there—on your good days, on your worst days, and every messy moment in between.

And when someone becomes that safe space for you, something changes.
You don’t just feel better.
You feel seen.

That kind of friend is rare. In a world where so many wear masks and hide behind filters—someone who chooses to understand you, even when you don’t understand yourself… that’s powerful.

So if you’ve found a friend like that, cherish them.
Tell them they matter.
Be that person for someone else, too.

Because the truth is, everyone is carrying something they don’t talk about.
And sometimes, all it takes is one person to say, “I’m here. I see you.”
To make someone believe they’re worth being seen.

To the one who's still waiting for that friend:

You’ll find them. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.
But someone, somewhere, is going to see your heart and protect it like it's their own.

And until then—be gentle with yourself. You’ve made it this far, and that’s already enough.

                         - "Sometimes, one true friend is all it takes to turn silence into strength."

"They Wore Smiles but Carried Knives".

 "Some hearts wear masks made of gold, but behind the shine, they’re cold. Not every kind word is kind—some are just well-practiced lies."

As we move through life, exploring new places and meeting different people, we form connections—some lasting, some fleeting. In the beginning, many seem kind, loyal, and genuine. They say all the right things, make you feel seen, and show you a version of themselves that seems safe. But over time, some of those familiar faces begin to change. Slowly, subtly, they reveal their true selves. And that’s when it hits you—some people were never who they pretended to be.

It’s a painful realization, especially when it comes from those you love the most. Imagine your own loved ones—people you trusted—starting to see you in a negative light. Every little thing you do annoys them. They think they’re always right, never stopping to consider that maybe they’re the ones in the wrong. They don’t just misunderstand you—they start to enjoy your discomfort. They’ll watch you struggle, lose confidence, cry, and slowly disconnect from everything that once brought you joy.

It changes who you are. If you were once full of energy, open and outgoing, you might retreat inward. If you were already quiet, you might shut down completely. You stop sharing, stop feeling safe, and start wondering if it’s even worth being yourself anymore. And the worst part? No one seems to notice. You're going through hell, and somehow, it's invisible to everyone.

This isn’t limited to new people or casual relationships—it can happen in your own home. Sometimes the ones closest to you, even family, wear masks. They act sweet and supportive in public, but in private, they show you a completely different version of themselves. Two-faced people have a way of making you feel like you’re the problem. They play both sides—kind to others, cruel to you.

You may try to cope by mirroring them, by putting on a fake smile or pretending it doesn’t hurt. But deep down, you know that’s not who you are. You can’t fake it like they do. And when they push you to the edge, when you finally break down in front of them, they feel nothing. Your pain becomes a joke. Your emotions, a burden. Once they’ve taken all they can from you, they’re ready to walk away—like you never mattered at all.

At first, you don’t want to believe it. You tell yourself not everyone is the same. But slowly, experience teaches you otherwise. A few people might be loyal, yes—but many will only stay as long as it benefits them. When they’re done, they’ll leave you with the mess, acting like they were never part of it. And if you keep letting it break you, you start believing you're the issue. You question your worth. You start hating yourself for not being “enough,” forgetting that the real problem was never you—it was them.

Some people will see the real you and love you for it. Others will never get past their own bitterness to recognize your light. The key is learning the difference. Stop letting their treatment define you. Stop thinking you deserve the pain they’ve caused. You don’t. You never did. Don’t let them distance you from yourself. Instead, start distancing yourself from them.

Even if your mind clings to them, listen to your heart. If it tells you to walk away—walk. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it. You deserve peace, not people who thrive off your silence. You deserve love that doesn’t come with conditions or expectations. Let them hate if they want to, but never let them control your story. The moment you start standing tall, they’ll realize they lost the best version of you.

This is your life. Take it back. Change doesn’t come when you wait—it comes when you decide that you’ve had enough. Let go of the ones who never saw your worth. Reclaim your peace, your power, and your voice. Once you start living on your terms, no one will dare to mess with you again.

"Some storms come to clear your path, not drown you. Let their absence be the calm you were searching for all along."

Women Deserve More Than Safety — They Deserve Respect.

                         "Respecting a woman is not a favor; it’s a responsibility. Safety is a right,  not a privilege."

We talk so much about how women deserve to feel safe—but is that really enough? Shouldn’t we be talking about more than just safety? Because let’s be honest: women deserve more. They deserve respect, freedom, and equality—not just the right to exist without fear.

Safety is the bare minimum. It’s the starting point. But somehow, it’s become the ultimate goal—as if walking home without fear of being followed or harassed is a privilege. That’s not progress. That’s a problem.

Think about how often women are blamed for the things done to them. “What was she wearing?” “Why was she alone?” “Was she drinking?” Instead of questioning the choices of the person committing the crime, we question the woman. It’s exhausting—and it’s wrong.

Even in 2025, gender inequality is still very real. Women are still being told how to dress, how to act, how to speak. If a woman is confident, she’s called bossy. If she’s ambitious, she’s “too much.” If she stays quiet, she’s seen as weak. It’s like no matter what she does, it’s never quite right.

And when it comes to work, the double standards are everywhere. The pay gap, the lack of representation in leadership roles, the expectation to be “professional” and “pleasant” no matter what—it all adds up.

But respect isn’t just about treating someone nicely. It’s about listening to their voice, honoring their choices, and giving them the space to be who they are—without fear of judgment or harm. It’s about understanding that women are not just mothers, sisters, wives, or daughters. They are people first—with dreams, opinions, and the right to live life on their own terms.

So instead of teaching girls how to be safe, maybe it’s time we start teaching everyone else how to be decent human beings. Let’s stop expecting women to change, and start changing the world around them.

Because being a woman isn’t something to be protected—it’s something to be respected, celebrated, and supported.

~Author’s Note:
If this message resonated with you, share it. Speak about it. Act on it.
Let’s build a world where women don’t just survive — they thrive

                              

                                       -"The world will truly be safe—not when women stop fearing the dark, but when men learn to walk in the light of respect."