Long before applause softened the edges of her days, she learned to move through rooms like a ghost wearing her own face. The doorway where she first understood she was alone became a permanent hallway in her mind. Each “be polite,” each forced embrace, stitched the message deeper: your comfort is disposable, your fear an inconvenience. So she became fluent in pretending, mastering the art of looking safe while feeling hunted.
Yet in the shadows of that performance, something fierce survived. Onstage, she discovered a language big enough for her pain, a place where tears could be choreography and rage could rhyme. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t to ask why no one came; it was to reach back to the child version of herself and stand guard. By naming what was done, she returned the stain to the silence that enabled it. Survival, she realized, was only the prologue. The real story was learning to live without abandoning herself ever again.
